
















J^^'^^WVCV’VVv 


•‘''..ivVVvvV .-•>■' V' 




^1 

H 

















Class 

Book 






t ^ ‘ I 




v. ip’. mfh :. •?■ ■• P': vP'-’ ■' ' ■■ *’ 

p-- ■ ■' ' .'■. . :'• 't.i PvP '.. •; : 


1 }! A: ■ 


■ 1 
■ < 



•, '• I 


' '■ ,p'.; .•A.'i ' 




; , , ‘ v p,,. 1 ^’- 

,' ^.: '■• Av'V ' ;W 


f{ 


. . ./ 
i . /. ■• 


<V' 

.W 

' / •' <- 

T';a‘ ’ 




\ ■ 


N , 


N 

^ * 


M 1 


‘i. '.^l!.' t. A 


•-W 




, 

« 


M 




i’ 


I > 


t * 




I'"- 


.? • 


? I 




‘A 


1 '. •'».»•. 
V ^ Jf 9 . • • • 

J f * ,1 1 1 - !../■' 

' , \ 'I ♦• f M 



■ t 


.'I 




.V* 


•V, 


^ I 


». • < 


* •• ' 1 :■ 

il r 

» »•“ 






3 J‘ ■ S'* ' 







^.■H‘- ■■ ■‘^'.•' '"■■-iV ■ - A- ^ ' 


»* " 






* . I ^ 


V 


M ' . .* 

> I »f < ^ ^ 




uT 

^■Ij 





4 








f 


\ 


t 


> 




P 

'f 

, 


t 

' V V 

- "V 

• « 


I 


r 







V 


V 


*1 , 

• . i 

t 










MR. PTCKWU’K SLIDES 


THE 


POSTHUMOUS PAPERS 


THE PICKWICK CLUB 


CHARLES DICKENS. 

n 


PORTER & COATES, 
PHILADELPHIA. 

\%«-T 


* 


‘ * - • - V 


•.V 






> \ \A ' ■ 


‘ ' . \ » ■ fr 

r> t • ^ ^ 


.. 

/ , 


# J. 

fi • 


r‘ 




V ' 


^ f ^ ^ 



e7 





V ;. \ 

\ \ > 


CL^ 


t 



^ / oi 7 S 





THIS 


EDITION OF MY BOOKS 

IS (as the library edition was) inscribed to my dear friend 


JOHN FORSTER, 

BIOGRAPHER OF OLIVER GOLDSMITH, 


IN GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE OF THE 

MANY PATIENT HOURS HE DEVOTED TO THE CORRECTION Of 
THE PROOF SHEETS OF THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS J 

AND IN AFFECTIONATE ACKNOWLEDGMENT 

OF HIS 

COUNSEL, SYMPATHY, AND FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP, 

DURING 


MV WHOLE LITERARY LIFE, 



PREFACE 


It was observed, in the Preface to the original Edition of the 
^ Posthumous Papers of the Pickwick Club,” that they were designed 
for the introduction of diverting characters and incidents; that no 
ingenuity of plot was attempted, or even at that time considered 
very feasible by the author in connexion with the desultory mode 
of publication adopted; and that the machinery of the Club, proving 
cumbrous in the management, was gradually abandoned as the work 
progressed. Although, on one of these points, experience and study 
afterwards taught me something, and I could perhaps wish now that 
these chapters were strung together on a stronger thread of general 
interest, still, what they are they were designed to be. 

I have seen various accounts of the origin of these Pickwick Papers, 
which have, at all events, possessed — for me — the charm of perfect 
novelty. As I may infer, from the occasional appearance of such 
histories, that my readers have an interest in the matter, I will relate 
how they came into existence. 

I was a young- man of two or three-and-twenty, when Messrs. 
Chapman and Hall, attracted by some pieces I was at that time 
writing in the Morning Chronicle newspaper, or had just written in 
the Old Monthly Magazine (of which one series had lately been 


viii 


Preface, 


collected and published in two volumes, illustrated by Mr. Georgb 
Cruikshank), waited upon me to propose a something that should 
be published in shilling numbers — then only known to me, or, I 
believe, to anybody else, by a dim recollection of certain interminable 
novels in that form, which used to be carried about the country by 
pedlars, and over some of which I remember to have shed innumerable 
tears before 1 had sensed my apprenticeship to Life. 

When I opened my door in Furnival’s Inn to the partner who re- 
presented the firm, I recognised in him the person from whose hands 
I had bought, two or three years previously, and whom I had never 
seen before or since, my first copy of the Magazine in which my first 
effusion — a paper in the " Sketches,” called Mr. Minns and his 
Cousin — dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and 
trembling, into a dark letter-box, in a dark office, up a dark court in 
Fleet Street — appeared in all the glory of print j on which occasion I 
walked down to Westminster Hall, and turned into it for half-an-hour, 
because my eyes were so dimmed with joy and pride, that they could 
not bear the street, and were not fit to be seen there. I told my visitor 
of the coincidence, which we both hailed as a good omen j and so fell 
to business. 

The idea propounded to me, was, that the monthly something should 
be a vehicle for certain plates to be executed by Mr. Seymour j and 
there was a notion, either on the part of that admirable humorous 
artist, or of my visitor, that a "Nimrod Club,” the members of which 
were to go out shooting, fishing, and so forth, and getting themselves 
into difficulties through their want of dexterity, would be the best 
means of introducing these. I objected, on consideration, that although 
born and partly bred in the country I was no great sportsman, except 
in regard of all kinds of locomotion 5 that the idea was not novel, and 
had been already much used 5 that it would be infinitely better for the 
plates to arise naturally out of the text j and that I would like to take 
my own way, with a freer range of English scenes and people, and was 


preface. 


il 


afraid I should ultimately do so in any case, whatever course I might 
prescribe to myself at starting. My views being deferred to, I thought 
of Mr. Pickwick, and wrote the first number j from the proof sheets 
of which, Mr. Seymour made his drawing of the Club, and his happy 
portrait of its founder : — the latter on Mr. Edward Chapman’s de- 
scription of the dress and bearing of a real personage whom he had 
often seen. I connected Mr. Pickwick with a club, because of the 
original suggestion, and I put in Mr. Winkle expressly for the use of 
Mr. Seymour. We started with a number of twenty-four pages 
instead of thirty-two, and four illustrations in lieu of a couple. Mr. 
Seymour’s sudden and lamented death before the second number was 
published, brought about a quick decision upon a point already in 
agitation j the number became one of thirty-two pages with only two 
illustrations, and remained so to the end. 

It is with great unwillingness that I notice some intangible and 
incoherent assertions which have been made, professedly on behalf of 
Mr. Seymour, to the effect that he had some share in the invention 
of this book, or of anything in it, not faithfully described in the fore- 
going paragraph. With the moderation that is due equally to my 
respect for the memory of a brother-artist, and to my self-respect, I 
confine myself to placing on record here the facts : 

That, Mr. Seymour never originated or suggested an incident, a 
phrase, or a word, to be found in this book. That, Mr. Seymour 
died when only twenty-four pages of this book were published, and 
when assuredly not forty-eight were written. That, I believe I never 
saw Mr. Seymour’s hand-writing in my life. That, I never saw Mr 
Seymour but once in my life, and that was on the night but one 
before his death, when he certainly offered no suggestion whatsoever. 
That I saw him then in the presence of two persons, both living, 
perfectly acquainted with all these facts, and whose written testimony 
to them I possess. Lastly, that Mr. Edward Chapman (the survivoi 
if the original firm of Chapman and Hall) has set down in writing, 


X 


Preface, 


for similar preservation, his personal knowledge of the origin and 
progress of this book, of the monstrosity of the baseless assertions in 
question, and (tested by details) even of the self-evident impossibility 
of there being any truth in them. In the exercise of the forbearance 
on which I have resolved, I do not quote Mr. Edward Chapman’s 
account of his deceased partner’s reception, on a certain occasion, oi 
the pretences in question. 

“ Boz,” my signature in the Morning Chronicle, and in the Old 
Monthly Magazine, appended to the monthly cover of this book, 
and retained long afterwards, was the nickname of a pet child, a 
younger brother, whom I had dubbed Moses, in honour of the Vicar 
of Wakefield j which being facetiously pronounced through the nose, 
became Boses, and being shortened, became Boz. Boz was a very 
familiar household word to me, long before I was an author, and so I 
came to adopt it. 

It has been observed of Mr. Pickwick, that there is a decided change 
in his character, as these pages proceed, and that he becomes more 
good and more sensible. I do not think this change will appear 
forced or unnatural to my readers, if they will reflect that in 
real life the peculiarities and oddities of a man who has anything 
whimsical about him, generally impress us first, and that it is 
not until we are better acquainted with him that we usually 
begin to look below these superficial traits, and to know the better 
part of him. 

Lest there should be any well-intentioned persons who do not 
perceive the difference (as some such could not, when Old Mor- 
tality was newly published), between religion and the cant of 
religion, piety and the pretence of piety, a humble reverence for 
the great truths of Scripture and an audacious and offensive obtrusion 
of its letter and not its spirit in the commonest dissensions and 
meanest affairs of life, to the extraordinary confusion of ignorant 
minds, let them understand that it is always the latter, and never 


Prejace. 


u 

the former, which is satirized here. Further, that the latter is here 
satirized as being, according to all experience, inconsistent with the 
former, impossible of union with it, and one of the most evil and 
mischievous falsehoods existent in society — whether it establish its 
head-quarters, for the time being, in Exeter Hall, or Ebenezer 
Chapel, or both. It may appear unnecessary to offer a word of 
observation on so plain a head. But it is never out of season to 
protest against that coarse familiarity with sacred things which is 
busy on the lip, and idle in the heart ; or against the confounding 
of Christianity with any class of persons who, in the words of 
Swift, have just enough religion to make them hate, and not enough 
to make them love, one another. 

I have found it curious and interesting, looking over the sheets of this 
reprint, to mark what important social improvements have taken place 
about us, almost imperceptibly, since they were originally written. 
I'he licence of Counsel, and the degree to which Juries are ingeniously 
bewildered, are yet susceptible of moderation j while an improvement 
in the mode of conducting Parliamentary Elections (and even Parlia- 
ments too, perhaps) is still within the bounds of possibility. But legal 
reforms have pared the claws of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg j a spirit of 
self-respect, mutual forbearance, education, and co-operation for such 
good ends, has difliised itself among their clerks j places far apart are 
brought together, to the present convenience and advantage of the Pub- 
lic, and to the certain destruction, in time, of a host of petty jealousies, 
blindnesses, and prejudices, by which the Public alone have always 
been the sufferers j the laws relating to imprisonment for debt are 
altered j and the Fleet Prison is pulled down ! 

Who knows, but by the time the series reaches its conclusion, it may 
be discovered that there are even magistrates in town and country, who 
should be taught to shake hands every day with Common-sense and 
Justice ; that even the Poor Laws may have mercy on the weak, the aged, 
and unfortunate ; that Schools, on the broad principles of Christianity, 


Preface. 


Ill 

are the best adornment for the length and breadth of this civilised 
land ; that Prison-doors should be barred on the outside, no less heavily 
and carefully than they are barred within ; that the universal diffusion 
of common means of decency and health is as much the right of the 
poorest of the poor, as it is indispensable to the safety of the rich, and 
of the State; that a few petty boards and bodies — less than drops in the 
oreat ocean of humanity, which roars around them — are not for ever 
to let loose Fever and Consumption on God’s creatures at their will, 
or always to keep their jobbing little h idles going, for a Dance 
Death. 


POSTHUMOUS PAPERS 


OF 

THE PICKWICK CLUB. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE PICKWICKIANS. 

The first ray of light which illumines the gloom, and converts into a dazzling 
brilliancy that obscurity in which the e®-lier history of the public career of the 
immortal Pickwick would appear to be involved, is derived from the perusal of 
the following entry in the Transactions of the Pickwick Club, which the editor of 
these papers feels the highest pleasure in laying before his readers, as a proof of 
the careful attention, indefatigable assiduity, and nice discrimination, with which 
his search among the multifarious documents confided to him has been con- 
ducted. 

“May 12, 1827. Joseph Smiggers, Esq., P.V.P.M.P.C.,* presiding. The 
following resolutions unanimously agreed to : — 

“ That this Association has heard read, with feelings of unmingled satisfaction, 
\nd unqualified approval, the paper communicated by Samuel Pickwick, Esq., 
G.C.M.P.C.,t entitled ‘ Speculations on the Source of the Hampstead Ponds, 
^ith some Observations on the Theoiy of Tittlebats ; ’ and that this Association 
does hereby return its warmest thanks to the said Samuel Pickwick, Esq., 
G.C.M.P.C., for the same. 

“That while this Association is deeply sensible of the advantages which must 
accrue to the cause of science from the production to which they have just 
adverted, — no less than from the unwearied researches of Samuel Pickwick, Esq., 
G.C.M.P.C., in Hornsey, Highgate, Brixton, and Camberwell, — they cannot but 
entertain a lively sense of the inestimable benefits which must inevitably result 
from carrying the speculations of that learned man into a wider field, from 
extending his travels, and consequently enlarging his sphere of observation, to 
♦.he advancement of knowledge, and the diffusion of learning. 

“ That, with the view just mentioned, this Association has taken into its serious 
consideration a proposal, emanating from the aforesaid Samuel Pickwick, Esq., 
G.C.M.P.C., and three other Pickwickians hereinafter named, for forming a new 
branch of United Pickwickians, under the title of The Corresponding Society of 
the Pickwick Club. 

“That the said proposal has received the sanction and approval of this 
Association. 

• Perpetual Vice-President — Member Pickwick Club, 
t Creueral Cb&lmian— Member Pickwick Club 


2 


Tke Pickwick Club. 


“That the Corresponding Society of the Pickwick Club is therefore hereby 
constituted; and that Samuel Pickwick, Esq., G.C.M.P.C., Tracy Tupman, Esq., 
M.P.C., Augustus Snodgrass, Esq., M.P.C., and Nathaniel Winkle, Esq., JNI.P.C., 
are hereby nominated and appointed members of the same ; and that they be 
requested to forward, from time to time, authenticated accounts of their journeys 
and investigations, of their observations of character and manners, and of the 
whole of their adventures, together with all tales and papers to which local 
scenery or associations may give rise, to the Pickwick Club, stationed in 
London. 

“That this Association cordially recognises the principle of every member of 
the Corresponding Society defraying his own travelling expenses ; and that it sees 
no objection whatever to the members of the said society pursuing their inquiries 
for any length of time they please, upon the same terms. 

“ That the members of the aforesaid Corresponding Society be, and are, hereby 
informed, that their proposal to pay the postage of their letters, and the carriage 
of their parcels, has been deliberated upon by this Association : that this Asso- 
ciation considers such proposal worthy of the great minds from which it emanated, 
and that it hereby signifies its perfect acquiescence therein.” 

A casual observer, adds the secretary, to whose notes we are indebted for the 
following account — a casual observer might possibly have remarked nothing 
extraordinary in the bald head, and circular spectacles, which were intently turned 
towards his (the secretary’s) face, during the reading of the above resolutions : to 
those who knew that the gigantic brain of Pickwick was working beneath that 
forehead, and that the beaming eyes of Pickwick w’ere twinkling behind those 
glasses, the sight was indeed an interesting one. There sat the man who had 
traced to their source the mighty ponds of Hampstead, and agitated the scientific 
world with his Theory of Tittlebats, as calm and unmoved as the deep waters of 
the one on a frosty day, or as a solitary specimen of the other in the inmost 
recesses of an earthen jar. And how much more interesting did the spectacle 
become, when, starting into full life and animation, as a simultaneous call for 
“Pickwick” burst from his followers, that illustrious man slowly mounted into 
the Windsor chair, on which he had been previously seated, and addressed the 
club himself had founded. Wliat a study for an artist did that exciting scene 
present ! The eloquent Pickwick, with one hand gracefully concealed behind his 
coat tails, and the other waving in air, to assist his glowing declamation ; his 
elevated position revealing those tights and gaiters, which, had they clothed an 
ordinary man, might have passed without observation, but which, when Pickwick 
clothed them — if we may use the expression — inspired voluntary awe and respect ; 
surrounded by the men who had volunteered to share the perils of his travels, and 
who were destined to participate in the glories of his discoveries. On his right 
hand sat Mr. Tracy Tupman— the too susceptible Tupman, who to the wisdom 
and experience of maturer years superadded the enthusiasm and ardour of a boy, 
in the most interesting and pardonable of human weaknesses — love. Time and 
feeding had expanded that once romantic form ; the black silk waistcoat had 
become more and more developed ; inch by inch had the gold watch-chain 
beneath it disappeared from within the range of Tupman’s vision ; and gradually 
had the capacious chin encroached upon the borders of the wnite cravat : but the 
soul of Tupman had known no change — admiration of the fair sex was still its 
ruling passion. On the left of his great leader sat the poetic Snodgrass, and near 
him again the sporting Winkle, the former poetically enveloped in a mysterious 
blue cloak with a canine-skin collar, and the latter communicating additional 
lustre to a new green shooting coat, plaid neckerchief, and closely-fitted drabs. 

Mr. Pickwick’s oration upon this occasion, together with the debate thereon, is 


A Pickwickian Devate. 


entered on the Transactions of the Club. Both bear a strong affinity to the 
discussions of other celebrated bodies; and, as it is always interesting to trace a 
resemblance between the proceedings of great men, we transfer the entry to these 
pages. 

“ Mr. Pickwick observed (says the Secretar}') that far,’,e was dear to the heart 
of every man. Poetic fame was dear to the heart of his friend Snodgrass ; the 
fame ot conquest was equally dear to his friend Tupman ; and the desire of 
earning fame in the sports of the field, the air, and the water, was uppermost in 
the breast of his friend Winkle. He (Mr. Pickwick) would not deny that he was 
influenced by human passions, and human feelings (cheers) — possibly by human 
weaknesses — (loud cries of “ No”) ; but this he would say, that if ever the fire of 
self-importance broke out in his bosom, the desire to benefit the human race in 
preference effectually quenched it. The praise of mankind was his Swing ; 
philanthropy was his insurance office. (Vehement cheering.) He had felt some 

E ride — he acknowledged it freely, and let his enemies make the most of it — he 
ad felt some pride when he presented his Tittlebatian Theory to the world ; it 
might be celebrated or it might not. (A cry of “ It is,” and great cheering.) He 
would take the assertion of that honourable Pickwickian whose voice he had just 
heard — it was celebrated ; but if the fame of that treatise were to extend to the 
furthest confines of the known world, the pride with which he should reflect on 
the authorship of that production would be as nothing compared with the pride 
with which he looked around him, on this, the proudest moment of his existence. 
(Cheers.) He was a humble individual. (No, no.) Still he could not but feel that 
they had selected him for a service of great honour, and of some danger. Travel- 
ling w'as in a troubled state, and the minds of coachmen were unsettled. Let them 
look abroad, and contemplate the scenes which were enacting around them. 
Stage coaches were upsetting in all directions, horses were bolting, boats were 
overturning, and boilers were bursting. (Cheers — a voice “ No.”) No ! (Cheers.) 
Let that honourable Pickwickian who cried “No” so loudly come foiward and 
deny it, if he could. (Cheers.) Who was it that cried “No.f*” (Enthusiastic 
cheering.) Was it some vain and disappointed man — he would not say haber- 
dasher — (loud cheers) — who, jealous of the praise which had been — perhaps 
undeservedly — bestowed on his (Mr. Pickwick’s) researches, and smarting under 
the censure which had been heaped upon his own feeble attempts at rivalry, now 

took this vile and calumnious mode of 

“Mr. Blotton (of Aldgate) rose to order. Did the honourable Pickwickian 
allude to him .? (Cries of “ Order,” “ Chair,” “ Yes,” “ No,” “ Go on,” “ Leave 
off,” &c.) 

“ Mr. Pickwick would not put up to be put down by clamour. He had 
alluded to the honourable gentleman. (Great excitement.) 

“ Mr. Blotton would only say then, that he repelled thehon. gent.’s false and 
scunilous accusation, with profound contempt. (Great cheering.) The hon. gent, 
was a humbug. (Immense confusion, and loud cries 0!*“ Chair” and “ Order.”) 

“ Mr. A. Snodgrass rose to order. He threw himseh upon the chair. (Hear.) 
He wished to know whether this disgraceful contest between two members of that 
club should be allowed to continue. (Hear, hear.) 

“The Chairman was quite sure the hon. Pickwickian would withdraw the 
expression he had just made use of. 

“ Mr. Blotton, with all possible respect for the chair, was quite sure he 
would not. 

“ The Chairman felt it his imperative duty to demand 01 the honourable 
gentleman, whether he had used the expression which had just escaped him m a 
common sense. 


4 


The Pickwick Club 


“Mr. Bloiton had no hesitation in sa\ang that he had not — he had used the 
woid in its Pickwickian sense. (Hear, hear.) He was bound to acknowledge 
that, personally, he entertained the highest regard and esteem for the honourable 
gentleman ; he had merely considered him a humbug in a Pickwickian point of 
view. /Hear, hear.) ^ . 

“ Ml. Pickwick felt much giatified by the fair, candid, and full explanation of 
liis honourable friend. He begged it to be at once understood, that his own 
observations had been merely intended to bear a Pickwickian construction. 
(Cheers.)” 

Here the entry terminates, as we have no doubt the debate did also, aftei 
arriving at such a highly satisfactory and intelligible point. We have no official 
statement of the facts which the reader will find recorded in the next chapter, 
but they have been carefully collated from letters and other MS. authorities, so 
unquestionably genuine as to justify their narration in a connected form. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE FIRST day’s JOURNEY, AND THE FIRST EVENING’S ADVENTURES; 

WITH THEIR CONSEQUENCES. 

That punctual servant of all work, the sun, had just risen, and begun to strike a 
light on the morning of the thirteenth of May, one thousand eight hundred and 
twenty-seven, when Mr. Samuel Pickwick burst like another sun from his slumbers, 
threw open his chamber window, and looked out upon the M^orld beneath. Gos- 
well Street was at his feet, Goswell Street was on his right hand — as far as the eye 
could reach, Goswell Street extended on his left ; and the opposite side of Goswell 
Street was over the way. “ Such,” thought Mr. Pickwick, “are the narrow views 
of those philosophers who, content with examining the things that lie before them, 
look not to the truths which are hidden beyond. As well might I be content to 
gaze on Goswell Street for ever, without one effort to penetrate to the hidden 
countries which on every side surround it.” And having given vent to this 
beautiful reflection, Mr. Pickwick proceeded to put himself into his clothes, and 
his clothes into his por tmanteau. Great men are seldom over scrupulous in the 
arrangement of their attire ; the oper ation of shaving, dressing, and coffee-imbibing 
was soon performed : and in another hour, Mr. Pickwick, wfth his portmanteau 
in his hand, his telescope in his great-coat pocket, and his note-book in his waist- 
(xrat, ready for the reception of any discoveries worthy of being noted down, had 
anivcd at the coach stand in St. Martin’s-le-Grand. 

“ Cab ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Here you are sir,” shouted a strange specimen of the human race, in a sack- 
cloth coat, and apr on of the same, who with a brass label and number round his 
nec:k, looked as if he were catalogued in some collection of rarities. This was 
tire waterman. “Here you are, sir-. Now, then, fust cab!” And the first cab 
having been fetched from the public-house, where he had been smoking his first 
pipe, Mr. Pickwick and his portmanteau were thrown into the vehicle. 

“Golden Cro-ss,” sard Mr. Pickwick. 

“Only a bob’s vorth. Tommy,” cried the driver, sulkily, for the ftifcimation 
of his friend tlie waterman, as the cab drove off. 


The Cabman and Ins Horse. 


s 

“How old is that horse, my friend?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his 
nose with tlie shilling he had reserved for the fare. 

“ Forty-two,” replied the driver, ej'eing him askant. 

“What!” ejaculated INIr. Pickwick, laying his hand upon his note-book. The 
driver reiterated his former statement. Mr. Pickwick looked very hard at the 
man’s face, but his features were immovable, so he noted down the fact 
forthwith. 

“And how long do you keep him out at a time.?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, 
searching for further infonnation. 

“ Two or three veeks,” replied the man. 

“Weeks!” said Mr. Pickwick in astonishment — and out came the note-book 
again. 

“He lives at Pentonwil when he’s at home,” observed the driver, coolly, “but 
we seldom takes him home, on account of his veakness.” 

“ On account of his weakness ! ” reiterated the perplexed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ He always falls down when he’s took out o’ the cab,” continued the driver, 
“but when he’s in it, we bears him up werry tight, and takes him in werry short, 
so as he can’t werry well fall down ; and we’ve got a pair o’ precious large wheels 
on, so ven he cioes move, they run after him, and he must go on — he can’t 
help it.” 

Mr. Pickwick entered every word of this statement in his note-book, with the 
view of communicating it to the club, as a singular instance of the tenacity of life 
in horses, under trying circumstances. The entry was scarcely comjjleted when 
they reached the Golden Cross. Down jumped the driver, and out got Mr. Pick- 
wick. Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle, who had been anxiously 
waiting the arrival of their illustrious leader, crowded to welcome him. 

“ Here’s ) jur fare,” said Mr. Pickwick, holding out the shilling to the driver. 

What was the learned man’s astonishment, when that unaccountable person 
flung the money on the pavement, and requested in figurative terms to be allowea 
the pleasure of fighting him (Mr. Pickwick) for the amount I 

“You are mad,” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ Or drunk,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ Or both,” said Mr. Tupman. 

“ Come on ! ” said the cab-driver, sparring away like clockwork. “ Come on — 
all four on you.” 

“Here’s a lark!” shouted half-a-dozen hackney coachmen. “Go to vork, 
Sam,” — and they crowded with great glee round the party. 

“What’s the row, Sam .?” inquired one gentleman in black calico sleeves. 

“ Row ! ” replied the cabman, “ what did he want my number for ?” 

- “ I didn’t want your number,” said the astonished Mr. Pickwick. 

“ What did you take it for, then .?” inquired the cabman. 

“I didn’t take it,” said Mr. Pickwick, indignantly. 

“ Would any body believe,” continued the cab-driver, appealing to the crowd, 
“ would any body believe as an informer ’ud go -about in a man’s cab, not only 
takin’ down his number, but ev’ry word he says into the bargain ” (a light flashed 
upon Mr. Pickwick — it was the note-book). 

“ Did he though .?” inquired another cabman. 

“Yes, did he,” replied the first; “and then arter aggerawatin’ me to assault 
him, gets three witnesses here to prove it. But I’ll give it him, if I’ve six months 
for it. Come on ! ” and the cabman dashed his hat upon the ground, with a reck 
less disregard of his own private property, and knocked Mr. Pickwick’s spectacles 
off, and followed up the attack with a blow on Mr. Pickwick’s nose, ancl another 
on Mr. Pickwick’s chest, and a third in Mr. Snodgrass’s eye, and a fourth by v^ay 


> 


The Pickwick Cluh. 


variety, in Mr. Tnpman’s waistcoat, and then danced into the road, and then 
)ack again to the pavement, and finally dasJ ed the whole temporary supply cf 
'reath out of Mr. Winkle’s body ; and all in half-a-dozen seconds. 

“ Where’s an officer ?” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ Put ’em under the pump,” suggested a hot-pieman. 

'* You shall smart for this,” gasped Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Infonners ! ” shouted the crowd. 

Come on,” cried the cabman, who had been spaning without cessation the 
«ixcle time. 

‘.i'i.e mob had hitherto been passive spectators of the scene, but as the intelli- 
gence of the Pickwickians being informers was spread among them, they began 
to cai \ass with considerable vivacity the propriety of enforcing the heated pastry- 
vcndoi s proposition ; and there is no saying what acts of personal aggression they 
might have committed had not the affray been unexpectedly terminated by the 
interposia m of a new comer. 

“ 'VVh.iv’i the fun said a rather tall thin young man, in a green coat, emerging 
sudderily horn the coach yard. 

“Infom:trt> !” shouted the crowd again. 

“ We are roared Mr. Pick'vick, in a tone which, to any dispassionate 

listener, canit 1 conviction with it. 

“Ain’t you, though, — ain’t you.?” said the young man, appealing to Mr. 
PickM'ick, and making his way through the crowd by the infallible process of 
elbowing the cou.nenances of its component members. 

That learned man in a few hunied words explained the real state of the case. 

“ Come along, then” said he of the green coat, lugging Mr. Pickwick after him 
by main force, and talking the whole way. “ Here, No. 924, take your fare, and 
take yourself off — re. pe». table gentleman, — know him well — none of your nonsense 
• — this way, sir, — where’s your friends ? — all a mistake, I see — never mind — acci- 
dents will happen — best regulated families — never say die — down upon your luck 
■ — pull him up — put that i.a his pipe — like the flavour — damned rascals.” And 
with a lengthened string of similar broken sentences, delivered with extraordinaiy 
volubility, the stranger led the way to the travellers’ waiting-room, whither he 
was closely followed by Mr- .I'ckwick and his disciples. 

“ Here, waiter! ” shouted ihc stranger, ringing the bell with tremendous violence, 
“ glasses round, — brandy and Neater, hot and strong, and sweet, and plenty, — eye 
damaged, sir ? Waiter 1 raw beef-steak for the gentleman’s eye, — nothing like 
raw beef-t,teak for a bruise, sir ; cold lamp-post very good, but lamp-post incon- 
venient — oamned odd standing in the open street half-an-hour, with your eye 
against a bmp-post — eh,— very good— ha I ha!” And the stranger,\vithout 
slopping to take breath, swallowed at a draught full half-a-pint of the reeking 
brandy and water, and flung himself ^nto a chair with as much ease as if nothing 
uncommon had occuired. 

While his three companions were busily engaged in proffering their thanks lo 
their new acquainiance, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to examine his costume and 
appearance. 

He was about the middle height, but the thinness of his body, and the length of 
his legs, gave him the appearance of being much taller. The green coat had been 
a smart dress garment in the days of swallow-tails, but had evidently in those 
times adorned a much shorter man than the stranger, for the soiled and faded 
si -eves scarcely reached to his wnisvs It w.is buttoned closely up to his chin, at 
the imminent hazaid of splitting ihe luck ; and an old stock, without a vestige of 
shiit collar, ornamented his neck. Hi:, scan*^' black trousers displayed here and 
t'^ere those shiny patches whukbespv^af in ij service, and were strapped veiy tightly 


The Lively Stranger as a Travelling Companimiy 


7 


dver a pair of patched and mended shoes, as if to conceal the dirty white stockings, 
which were nevertheless distinctly visible, llis long black hair escaped in negli- 
gent waves from beneath each side of his old pinched up hat ; and glimpses of 
his bare wrists might be obseiwed between the tops of his gloves, and the cuffs 
of his coat sleeves. His face was thin and haggard ; but an indesciibable air o^ 
jaunty impudence and perfect self-possession peiwaded the whole man. 

Such was the individual on whom Mr. Pickwick gazed through his sptectacles 
(which he had fortunately recovered), and to whom he proceeded, when his friends 
had exhausted themselves, to return in chosen terms his warmest thanks for his 
recent assistance. 

“ Never mind,” said the stranger, cutting the address very short, “%aid enough, 
— ^no more ; smart chap that cabman — handled his fives well ; but if I’d been 
your friend in the green jemmy — damn me — punch his head, — ’cod I would, — 
pig’s whisper — pieman too, — no gammon.” 

This coherent speech was interrupted by the entrance of the Rochester coach- 
man, to announce that “ The Commodore ” was on the point of starting. 

“ Commodore! ” said the stranger, starting up, “ my coach, — place booked, — 
one outside — leave you to pay for the brandy and water, — want change for a five, 
— bad silver — Bmmmagem buttons — won’t do — no go — eh?” and he shook his 
head most knowingly- 

Now it so happened that Mr. Pickwick and his three companions had resolved 
to make Rochester their first halting place too ; and having intimated to their new- 
found acquaintance that they were journeying to the same city, they agreed to 
occupy the seat at the back.of the coach, where they could all sit together. 

“Up with you,” said the stranger, assisting Mr. Pickwick on to the roof with 
so much precipitation as to impair the gravity of that gentleman’s deportment 
veiy materially. 

“ Any luggage, sir ?” inquired the coachman. 

“ Who — I ? Brown paper parcel here, that’s all, — other luggage gone by water, 
— packing cases, nailed up — big as houses — heavy, heavy, damned heavy,” replied 
the stranger, as he forced into his pocket as much as he could of the brown paper 
parcel, which presented most suspicious indications of containing one shirt and a 
handkerchief. 

“Heads, heads — hke care of your heads!” cried the loquacious stranger, as 
they came out under the low archway, which in those days formed the entrance 
to the coach-yard. “ Terrible place^^angerous work — other day — five children 
• — motnej — tall lady, eating sandwiches — forgot the arch — crash — knock — chil- 
dren look round — m< )ther’s head off — sandwich in her hand — no mouth to put it 
in — head of a family oft^ — shocking, shocking I Looking at Whitehall, sir .? — fine 
place — lidle w'indo’j> — somebody else’s head off there, eh, sir } — he didn’t keep a 
sharp looli-out enough either — eh, sir, eh ?” 

“I am Tumiuatiiij;,” said Zvir. Pickwick, “ on the strange mutability of human 
affairs.” 

“ Ah ! I sec^— in at the palace door one day, out at the window the next- Phi- 
losopher, sir?” 

“ An obstrvtx (d human nature, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Ah, so am 1. Most people are when they’ve httle to do and less to get. 
Poet, sir f** 

“ My friend Mr, Snodgrass has a strong poetic turn,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ So havt I.” said the stranger. “ Epic poem, — ten thousand lines — revolution 
of July— cu'-mvjied it on the spot— Mars by day, Apollo by night,— bang the 
field-piece, jsvaiig the lyre.” 

“You W'-fL present at that glorious scene, sir?” said Mr. Snodgrass. 


8 


The Pickirich Club. 


** Present ! think I was ;♦ fired a musket, — fired with an idea, -^rushed into 
wine shop — wrote it down — back again — whiz, bang — another idea — wine shop 
again — pen and ink — back again — cut and slash — noble time, sir. Sportsman, 
sir ?” abruptly turning to Mr. Winkle. 

“ A little, sir,” replied that gentleman. 

“Fine pursuit, sir, — fine pursuit, — Dogs, sir?” 

“Not just now,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ Ah ! you should keep dogs — fine animals — sagacious creatures — dog of my 
own once — Pointer — surprising instinct — out shooting one day— entering enclosure 
— whistled — dog stopped — whistled again — Ponto — no go ; stock still — called 
him — Ponto,* Ponto — wouldn’t move — dog transfixed — staring at a board — looked 
up, saw an inscription — ‘ Gamekeeper has orders to shoot all dogs found in this 
enclosure’ — wouldn’t pass it — wonderful dog — valuable dog that — very.” 

“ Singular circumstance that,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Will you allow me to 
make a note of it ” 

“ Certainly, sir, certainly — hundred more anecdotes of the same animal. — Fine 
girl, sir” (to Mr. Tracy Tupman, who had been bestowing sundry anti-Pickwickian 
glances on a young lady by the roadside). 

“ Very !” said Mr. Tupman. 

“English girls not so fine as Spanish — noble creatures — jet hair — ^black eyes — 
lovely forms — sweet creatures — beautiful.” 

“ You have been in Spain, sir ?” said Mr. Tracy Tupman. 

“ Lived there — ages.” 

“Many conquests, sir?” inquired Mr. Tupman. , 

“ Conquests ! Thousands. Don Bolaro Fizzgig — Grandee — only daughter — 
Donna Christina — splendid creature — loved me to distraction— jealous father — high- 
souled daughter — handsome Englishman — Donna Christina in despair — prussic 
acid— stomach pump in my portmanteau- operation performed— old Bolaro in 
ecstasies— consent to our union — ^join hands and floods of tears — romantic story — 
very.” 

“Is the lady in England now, sir?” inquired Mr. Tupman, on whom the 
description of her charms had produced a powerful impression. 

“ Dead, sir — dead,” said the stranger, applying to his right eye the brief rem- 
nant of a very old cambric handkerchief. “ Never recovered the stomach pump — 
undermined constitution — fell a victim.” 

“ And hex father ?” inquired the poetic Snodgrass. 

“ Remor?.e and misery,” replied the stranger. “ Sudden disappearance— talk 
of the wh'/.e city — search made everywhere — without success — public fountain in 
the great square suddenly ceased playing— weeks elapsed — still a stoppage— 
workmra employed to clean it — water drawn off— father-in-law discovered stick- 
ing heii first in the main pipe, with a full confession in his right boot — took him 
out, ar,d the fountain played away again, as well as ever.” 

“ V/ill you allow me to note that little romance down, sir ?” said Mr. Snod- 
giasr,, deeply aflected. 

“Certainly, sir, certainly, — fifty more if you like to hear ’em— strange life mine 
— rather curious history — not extraordinary, but singular.” 

In this strain, with an occasional glass of ale, by way of parenthesis, when the 
coach changed horses, did the stranger proceed, until they reached Rochester 
bridge, by which time the. note-books, both of Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Snodgrass, 
were completely filled with selections Irora his adventures. 


* A reTarkitWe instance of the prophetic force of Mr. Jingle’s imagination ; 
ring in the year 1827, and the Eevolution in 1830. 


this dialogue occun 


rhi Trai ellers in the Ancient City of Rochester. 9 

“Magnificent ruin!” said Mr. Augiistus Snodgrass, with all the poetic fervour 
that distinguisly^d him, when they came in sight of the fine oid castie. 

“What a study lor an antiquarian I ” were the very words which fell from Mr. 
Pickwick’s mouth, as he applied his telescope to his eye. 

“Ah I fine place,” said the stranger, “ glorious pile —frowning walls — tottering 
arches — daik nooks — crumbling staircases — Old cathedral too — earthy smell — pil- 
grim’s leet worn away the old steps — little Sax m doors — confessionals like money- 
takers’ boxes at theatres — queer customers those monks — Popes, and Lord Trea- 
surers, and all sorts of old fellows, with great red faces, and broken noses, turning 
up every day — buff jerkins too — match-locks — Sarcophagus — fine place — old 
legends too — strange stories : capital ;” and the stranger continued to soliloquise 
until they reached the Bull Inn, in the High Street, where the coach stopped. 

“Do you remain here, sir?” inquired Mr. Nathaniel Winkle. 

“ Here — not I — but you’d better — good house — nice beds — Wright’s next house, 
dear — very dear — half-a-crown in the bill if you look at the Avaiter — charge you 
more if you dine at a friend’s than they would if you dined in the coft'ee-room — 
rum fellows — very.” 

Mr. Winkle turned to Mr. PickAvick, and murmured a few words ; a whisper 
passed from Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Snod glass, from Mr. Snodgrass to Mr. Tupman, 
and nods of assent were exchanged. Mr. Pickwick addressed the stranger. 

“ You rendered us a very important seivice this morning, sir,” said he, “will 
you allow us to offer a slight mark of our gratitude by begging the favour of your 
company at dinner ? ” 

“ Great pleasure — not presume to dictate, but broiled fowl and mushrooms — 
capital thing I what time ? ” 

“Let me see,” replied Mr. Pickwick, referring to his watch, “ it is now nearly 
three. Shall we say five ? ” 

“ Suit me excellently,” said the stranger, “ five precisely — till then — care of your- 
selves ; ” and lifting the pinched-up hat a few inches from his head, and carelessly 
replacing it very much on one side, the stranger, with half the brown paper parcel 
sticking out of his pocket, walked briskly up the yard, and turned into the High 
Street. 

“ Evidently a traveller in many countiies, and a close observer of men and 
things,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“I should like to see his poem,” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“I should like to have seen that dog,” said Mr. Winkle. 

Mr. Tupman said nothing ; but he thought of Donna Christina, the stomach 
pump, and the fountain ; and his eyes filled with tears. 

A ;;:rivate sitting-room having been engaged, bed-rooms inspected, and dinner 
ordered, the party walked out to view the city and adjoining neighbourhood. 

We do not find, from a careful perusal of Mr. Pickwick’s notes on the four 
towns, Stroud, Rochester, Chatham, and Brompton, that his impressions of their 
appearance differ in any material point from those of other travellers who have 
gone over the same ground. His general description is easily abridged. 

“ The principal productions of these towns,” says Mr. Pickwick, “ appear to be 
soldiers, sailors, Jews, chalk, shrimps, officers, and dockyard men. The commo- 
dities chiefly exposed for sale in the public streets are marine stores, hard-bake, 
apples, flat-fish, and oysters. The streets present a lively and animated appearance, 
occasioned chiefly by the conviviality of the military. It is truly dehghtiul to a 
philanthropic mind, to see these gallant men staggering along under the influence 
of £m overflow, both of animal and ardent spirits ; more especially when we remember 
that the f ollowing them about, and jesting with them, affords a cheap and innocen'. 
amusement for the boy population. Nothing (adds Mr. Pickwick) can exceed their 


ro 


The Pickwick Clul. 


good humour. It was but the day before my anival that one of them had beeo 
most grossly insulted in the house of a publican. The bar-maid had positb'ely 
refused to draw him any more liquor ; in return for which he had (meiely in play- 
fulness) drawn his bayonet, and wounded the girl in the shoulder. And yet this 
fine fellow was the very first to go down to the house next morning, and express his 
readiness to overlook the matter, and forget what had occurred. 

“ The consumption of tobacco in these towns (continues Mr. Pickwick) must be 
very great : and the smell which pervades the streets must be exceedingly delicious to 
those who are extremely fond of smoking. A superficial traveller might object to 
the dirt which is their leading characteristic ; but to those who view it as an indica- 
tion of traffic and commercial prosperity, it is truly gratifying.” 

Punctual to five o’clock came the stranger, and shortly afterwards the dinner. He 
had divested himself of his brown paper parcel, but had made no alteration in his 
attire ; and was, if possible more loquacious than ever. 

“ What’s that ? ” he inqun ed, as the waiter removed one of the covers. 

“ Soles, sir.” 

“ Soles — ah! — capital fish — all come from London — stage-coach proprietors get 
up political dinners — carriage of soles — dozens of baskets — cunning fellows. Glass 
of wine, sir.” 

“ With pleasure,” said Mr. Pickwick ; and the stranger took wine, first with 
him, and then with Mi*. Snodgrass, and then with Mr. Tupman, and then with 
;Mr. Winlde, and then with the wfiiole party together, almost as rapidly as he 
talked. 

“ Devil of a mess on the staircase, waiter,” said the stranger. “ Forms going 
up — carpenters coming down — lamps, glasses, haips. What’s going forward ?” 

“ Ball, sir,” said the waiter. 

“ Assembly, eh ?” 

“No, sir, not Assembly, sir. Ball for the benefit of a charity, sir.” 

“ Many fine women in this town, do you know, sir ? ” inquired Mr. Tupman« 
with great interest. 

“ Splendid— capital. Kent, sir— everybody knows Kent — apples, chenies. 
hops, and women. Glass of wine, sir } ” 

“ With great pleasure,” replied Mr. Tupman. The stranger filled, and emptied. 

“T should very much like to go,” said Mr. Tupman, resuming the subject ol 
the ball, “very much.” 

“ Tickets at the bar, sir,” interposed the waiter ; “ half-a-guinea each, sir.” 

Mr. Tupman again expressed an earnest wish to be present at the festivity ; but 
meeting with no response in the darkened eye of Mr. Snodgrass, or the abstracted 
gaze of Mr. Pickwick, he applied himself with great interest to the port wine and 
dessert, which had just been placed on the table. The waiter withdrew, and the 
party were left to enjoy the cosy couple of hours succeeding dinner. 

“ Beg your pardon, sir,” said the stranger, “ bottle stands — pass it round — way 
of the sun -through the button-hole — no heeltaps,” and he emptied his glass, 
which he had filled about two minutes before, and poured out another, with the 
air of a man who was used to it. 

The wine was passed, and a fresh supply ordered. The visitor talked, the 
Pickwkkians listened. Mr. Tupman felt every moment more di.->posed for the ball. 
Mr. Pickwick’s countenance glowed with an expression of universal philanthropy , 
and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass fell fast asleep. 

“ They’re beginning up-stairs,” said the stranger — “hear the company — fiddles 
tuning— now the harp— there they go.” The various sounds which found tlif'.ir 
way down-stairs announced the commencement of the first quadrille. 

“ How I should like to go,” said Mr. Tupman, again. 


Going to the Bail. 


II 


“So should I,” said the stranger, — “confounded luggage — heavy smacks — 
nothing to go in— odd, an’t it ? ” 

Now general benevolence was one of the leading features of the Pickwickian 
theory, and no one was more remarkable for the zealous manner in which he 
observed so noble a principle than Mr. Tracy Tupman. The number of instances, 
recorded on the Transactions of the Society, in which that excellent man referred 
objects of charity to the houses of other members forleft-olF garments or pecuniary 
relief is almost incredible. 

“ I should be very happy to lend you a change of apparel for the purpose,” said 
Mr. Tracy Tupman, “ but you are rather slim, and I am—” 

“ Rather fat — grown up Bacchus — cut the leaves — dismounted from the tub, 
and adopted kersey, eh ? — not double distilled, but double milled — ha ! ha ! pass 
the wine.” 

Whether Mr. Tupman was somewhat indignant at the peremptory tone in which 
he was desired to pass the wine which the stranger passed so quickly away ; 
or whether he felt very properly scandalised, at an influential member of the Pick- 
wick club being ignominiously compared to a dismounted Bacchus, is a fact not 
yet completely ascertained. He passed the wine, coughed twice, and looked at 
the stranger for several seconds with a stern intensity ; as that individual, how- 
ever, appeared perfectly collected, and' quite calm under his searching glance, he 
gradually relaxed, and reverted to the subject of the ball. 

“ I was about to observe, sir,” he said, “ that though my apparel would be too 
large, a suit of my friend Mr. Winkle’s would perhaps fit you better.” 

The stranger took Mr. Winkle’s measure with his eye; and that feature glistened 
with satisfaction as he said— “just the thing.” 

Mr. Tupman looked round him. The wine, which had exerted its somniferous 
influence over Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle, had stolen upon the senses of 
Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman had gradually passed through the various stages 
wiiich precede the lethargy produced by dinner, and its consequences. He had 
undergone the ordinary transitions from the height of conviviality to the depth of 
misery, and from the depth of misery to the height of conviviality. Like a gas 
tamp in the street, with the wind in the pipe, he had exhibited for a moment an 
unnatural brilliancy : then sunk so low as to be scarcely discernible : after a short 
interval he had burst out again, to enlighten for a moment, then flickered with an 
uncertain, staggering sort of light, and then gone out altogether. His head was 
sunk upon his bosom ; and perpetual snoring, with a partial choke occasionally, 
were the only audible indications of the great man’s presence. 

The temptation to be present at the ball, and to form his first impressions of the 
beauty of the Kentish ladies, was strong upon Mr. Tupman. The temptation to 
take the stranger with him was equally great. He was wholly unacquainted with 
tlie place, and its inhabitants ; and the stranger seemed to possess as great a know- 
ledge of both as if he had lived there from his infancy. Mr. Winkle w’as asleep, 
and Mr. Tupman had had sufficient experience in such matters to know% that the 
moment he aw’oke he w'ould, in the ordinary course of nature, roll heavily to bed. 
He was undecided. “ Fill your glass, and pass the wine,” said the indefatigable 
visitor. 

Mr. Tupman did as he was requested ; and the additional stimulus of the last 
glass settled his determination. 

“ Winkle’s bed-room is inside mine,” said Mr. Tupman ; “ I couldn’t make 
him understand what I w'anted, if I woke him now, but I know he has a dress suit, 
in a carpet-bag, and supposing you wore it to the ball, and took it ofi’ w’hen we 
returned, I could replace it without troubling him at all about the matter.” 

“ Capital,” said the stranger, “ famous plan — damned odd situation — fourteen 


12 


The Pickwick Club. 


coats in the packing cases, and obliged to wear another man’s — very good notioij, 
that — very.” 

“ We must purchase our tickets,” said Mr. Tupman. 

“Not worth while splitting a guinea,” said the stranger, “toss who shall pay 
for both— I call ; you spin — first time — woman— woman— bewitching woman,” 
and down came the sovereign, with the Dragon (called by courtesy a woman) 
uppermost. 

Mr. Tupman rang the bell, purchased the tickets, and ordered chamber candle- 
sticks. In another quarter o; an hour the stranger was completely arrayed in a 
full suit ox Mr. Nathaniel Winlde’s. 

“ It’s a new coat,” said Mr. Tupman, as the stranger surveyed himself with 
great complacency in a cheval glass ; “ the first that’s been made with our club 
button,” and he called his companion’s attention to the large gilt button which 
displayed a bust of Mr. Pickwick in the centre, and the letters “ P. C.” on either 
side. 

“ P. C.” said the stranger, — “queer set out — old fellow’s likeness, and ‘P. C.’ 
— What does ‘P. C.’ stand for — Peculiar coat, eh 

Mr. Tupman, with rising indignation and great importance, explained the 
mystic device. 

“ Rather short in the waist, an’t it said the stranger, screwing himself round 
to catch a glimpse m the glass of the waist buttons which were half way up his 
back. “ Like a general postman’s coat — queer coats those — made by contract — 
no measuring — mysterious dispensations of Providence — all the short men get 
long coats — all the long men short ones.” Running on in this way, Mr. Tupman’s 
new companion adjusted his dress, or rather the dress of Mr. Winkle ; and, accom- 
panied by Mr. Tupman, ascended the staircase leading to the ball-room. 

“What names, sir?” said the man at the door. Mr. Tracy Tupman was 
stepping forward to announce his own titles, when the stranger prevented him. 

“No names at all ; ” and then he whispered Mr. Tupman, “ Names von’t do — 
not known — very good names in their way, but not great ones — capital names for 
a small party, but won’t make an impression in public assemblies — incog, the 
thing — Gentlemen from London — distinguished foreigners — anything.” The door 
was thrown open ; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, and the stranger, entered the ball- 
room. 

It ^/as a long room, with crimson-covered benches, and wax candles in glass 
chandeliers. The fnusicians were securely confined in an elevated den, and 
quadrilles were being systematically got through by two or three sets of dancers. 
Two card-tables were made up in the adjoining card-room, and two pair ol old 
ladies, and a conesponding number ot stout gentlemen, were executing whist 
therein. 

The finale concluded, the dancers promenaded the room, and Mr. Tupman and 
his companion stationed themselves in a comer, to observe the company. 

“ Charming women,” said Mr. Tupman. 

“Wait a minute,” said the stranger, “ fun presently — nobs not come yet — queer 
place— Dock-yard people of upper rank don’t know Dock-yard people of lower 
ranli — Dockyard people of lower rank don’t know small gentry — small gentry don’t 
knov'’ tradespeople— Commissioner don’t know anybody.” 

“ Who’s that little boy with the light hair and pink eyes, in a fancy dress 
inquired Mr. Tupman. 

“Hush, pray— pink eyes— fancy dress— little boy — nonsense— Ensign 97th— 
Honourable Wilmot Snipe — great family — Snipes — very.” 

“ Sir Thomas Clubber, Lady Clubber, and the Miss Clubbers!” shouted the 
jnan at the dew in a stentorian voice A great sensation was created throughout 


At the Ball. 


13 


the n)om by the entrance of a tall gentleman in a blue coat and bright buttons, a 
large lady in blue satin, and two young ladies, on a similar scale, in fashionably- 
made dresses of the same hue. 

“ Commissioner — head of the yard — gi'eat man — remarkably great man,” whis- 
p'-'red the stranger in Mr. Tupman’s ear, as the charitable committee ushered Sir 
- homas Clubber and family to the top of the room. The Honourable Wil mot 
Snipe, and other distinguished gentlemen crowded to render homage to the Miss 
Clubbers ; and Sir Thomas Clubber stood bolt upright, and looked majestically 
over his black neckerchief at the assembled company. 

“ Mr. Smithie, Mrs. Smithie, and the ^Misses Smithie,” was the next announce- 

inenL 

“ What’s Mr. Smithie } ” inquired Mr. Tracy Tupman. 

“ Something in the yard,” replied the stranger. Mr. Smithie bowed defer- 
entially to Sir Thomas Clubber ; and Sir Thomas Clubber acknowledged the 
salute with conscious condescension. Lady Clubber took a telescopic view of 
Mrs. Smithie and family through her eye-glass, and Mrs. Smithie stared in her 
cum at Mrs. Somebody else, whose husband was not in the Dock-yard at all. 

“ Colonel Bulder, Mrs. Colonel Bulder, and Miss Bulder,'*' were the next 
arrivals. 

“ Head of the Garrison,” said the stranger, in reply to J^Ir. Tupman’s inquiring 
look. 

Miss Bulder was warmly welcomed by the Miss Clubbers ; the greeting between 
Mrs. Colonel Bulder and Lady Clubber was of the most affectionate description ; 
Colonel Bulder and Sir Thomas Clubber exchanged snuff-boxes, and looked very 
much like a pair of Alexander Selkirks — “ Afonarchs of all they surveyed.” 

While the aristocracy ot the place— the Bulders, and Clubbers, and Snipes — 
were thus preserving their dignity at the upper end of the room, the other ciasse.s 
of society were imitating their example in other parts of it. The less aristocratic 
officers of the 97th devoted themselves to the families of the less important func- 
tionaries from the Dock-yard. The solicitors’ wives, and the wine-merchant’s 
wife, headed another grade (the brewer’s wife visited the Bulders) ; and Mrs. 
Tomlinson, the post-office keeper, seemed by mutual consent to have been chosen 
the leader of the trade party. 

One of the most popular personages, in his own circle, present was a little fat 
man, with a ring of upright black hair round his head, and an extensive bald plain 
on the top of it — Doctor Slammer, surgeon to the 97th. The Doctor took snufl 
with eveiybody, chatted with everybody, laughed, danced, made jokes, played 
whist, did everything, and was everywhere. To these pursuits, multifarious as they 
were, the little Doctor added a more important one than any — he was indefatigable 
in paying the most unremitting and devoted attention to a little old widow, whose 
rich dress and profusion of ornament bespoke her a most desirable addition to a 
limited income. 

Upon the Doctor, and the widow, the eyes of both Mr. Tupman and his com- 
panion bad been fixed for some time, when the stranger broke silence. 

“ Lots of money — old girl — pompous Doctor~not a bad idea — good fun,” we' e 
the intelligible sentences which issued from his lips. Mr. Tupman looked inqui- 
sitively in his face. 

“I’ll dance with the widow,” said the stranger, 

“ Who is she ? ” inquired Mr. Tupman. 

“ Don’t know — never sa\^ her in all my life — cut out the Doctor — here goes.” 
And the stranger forthwith crossed the room ; and, leaning against a mantel-piece, 
commenced gazing with an air of respectful and melancholy admiration on the 
fat ccjntenance of the little old lady. Mr. Tupman looked ou, in mute astonish- 


H 


The Pickwick Clul. 


mcnt. The stranger progressed rapidly ; the little Doctor danced with another 
lady ; the widow dropped her fan, the stranger picked it up, and presented it, — 
a smile — a bow — a curtsey — a few words of conversation. The stranger walked 
boldly up to, and returned with, the master of the ceremonies ; a little introductory 
paiitomime ; and the stranger and Mrs. Budger took their places in a quadrille. 

The surprise of Mr. Tupman at this summary proceeding, great as it was, was 
immeasurably exceeded by the astonishment of the Doctor. The stranger was 
young, and the widow was flattered. The Doctor’s attentions were unheeded by 
the widow ; and the Doctor’s indignation was wholly lost on his imperturbable 
rival. Doctor Slammer was paralysed. He, Doctor Slammer, of the 97th, to be 
extinguished in a moment, by a man whom nobody had ever seen before, and 
whom nobody knew even now ! Doctor Slammer — Doctor Slammer of the 97th 
rejected ! Impossible ! It could not be ! Yes, it was ; there they were. What ! 
introducing his friend ! Could he believe his eyes ! He looked again, and was 
under the painful necessity of admitting the veracity of his optics ; Mrs. Budger 
was dancing with Mr. Tracy Tupman, there was no mistaking the fact. There 
was the widow before him, bouncing bodily, here and there, with unwonted 
vigour ; and Mr. Tracy Tupma?n hopping about, with a face expressive of the 
most intense solemnity, dancing (as a good many people do) as if a quadrille were 
not a thing to be laughed at, but a severe trial to the feelings, which it require.s 
inflexible resolution to encounter. 

Silently and patiently did the Doctor bear all this, and all the handings of negus, 
and watching for glasses, and darting for biscuits, and coquetting, that ensued ; 
but, a few seeonds after the stranger had disappeared to lead Mrs. Budger to her 
carriage, he darted swiftly from the room with every particle of his hitherto-bottled- 
up indignation effervescing, from all parts of his countenance, in a perspiration of 
passion. 

The stranger was returning, and Mr. Tupman was beside him. He spoke in a 
low tone, and laughed. The little Doctor thirsted for his life. He was exulting. 
He had triumjihed. 

“ Sir ! ” -aid the Doctor, in an awful voice, producing a card, and retiring into 
an angle of the passage, “my name is Slammer, Doctor Slammer, sir— 97th 
Regiment— Chatham Barracks— my card, sir, my card.” He would have added 
more, but his indignation choked him. 

“ All !” replied the stranger, coolly, “ Slammer— much obliged— polite atten- 
tion — not ill now. Slammer — but when I am — knock you up.” 

“You— you’re a shuffler! sir,” gasped the furious Doctor, “a poltroon— a 
coward — a liar— a — a — will nothing induce you to give me your card, sir I ” 

“Oh! I see,” said the stranger, half aside, “negus too strong here— liberal 
landlord— very foolish — very— lemonade much better — hot rooms — elderly gen- 
tlemen— suft'er for it in the moming—cruel— cruel ; ” and he moved on a step 
or two. 

“ You are stopping in this house, sir,” said the indignant little man ; “ you are 
intoxicated now, sir ; you shall hear from me in the morning, sir. I shall find 
you out, sir; I shall find you out.” 

“ Rather you found me out than found me at home,” replied the unmoved 
stranger. 

Doctor Slammer looked unutterable ferocity, as he fixed his hat on his head 
with an indignant knock ; and the stranger and I^Ir. Tupman ascended to the bed- 
room of the latter to restore the borrowed plumage to the unconscious Winkle. 

lhat gentleman was fast asleep ; the restoration was soon made. The stranger 
was extremely jocose ; and Mr. Tracy Tupman, being quite bewildered with wine, 
uegus. liglits, and ladies, thought the whole affair an exquisite joke. His nev 


Mr. IVmkle becomes involved in an A^l]’air of Honour. 13 

friend departed ; and, after experiencing some slight difficulty in finding ihe orifice 
in his night-cap, originally intended for the reception of his head, and finally 
overturning his candlestick in his struggles to put it on, Mr. Tracy Tupnian 
managed to get into bed by a series of complicated evplutions, and shortly after- 
wards sank into repose. 

Seven o’clock had hardly ceased striking on the following morning when Mr. 
Pickwick’s comprehensive mind w'as aroused from the state of unconsciousness, in 
which slumber had plunged it, by a loud knocking at his chamber door. 

“ Who’s there } ” said Mr. Pickwick, starting up in bed. 

“ Boots, sir.” 

“ What do you want } ” 

“ Please, sir, can you tell me, which gentleman of your party wears a bright 
blue dress coat, with a gilt button with P. C. on it } ” 

“ It’s been given out to brush,” thought Mr. Pickwick, and the man has for- 
gotten whom it belongs to. “Mr. Winkle,” he caDed out, “next room but two, 
on the right hand.” 

“ Thank’ee, sir,” said the Boots, and away he went. 

“What’s the matter.?” cried Mr. Tupman, as a loud knocking at his door 
roused him from his oblivious repose. 

“ Can I speak to Mr. Winkle, sir .? ” replied the Boots from the outside. 

“Winkle — Winkle ! ” shouted Mr. Tupman, calling into the inner room. 

“ Hallo ! ” replied a faint voice from within the bed-clothes. 

“ You’re wanted — some one at the door — ” and having exerted himself to arti- 
culate thus much, Mr. Tracy Tupman turned round and fell fast asleep again. 

“ Wanted ! ” said Mr. Winkle, hastily jumping out of bed, and putting on a 
few articles of clothing : “ wanted ! at this distance from town — who on earth can 
want me .? ” 

“ Gentleman in the coffee-room, sir,” replied the Boots, as Mr. Winkle opened 
the door, and confronted him ; “ gentleman says he’ll not detain you a moment, 
sir, but he can take no denial.” 

“ Very odd ! ” said Mr. Winkle ; “I’ll be dowm directly.” 

He hurriedly wrapped himself in a travelling-shawl and dressing-gown, and 
proceeded down-stairs. An old w'oman and a couple of waiters were cleaning the 
coffee-room, and an officer in undress unifonn was looking out of the window. 
He turned round as Mr. Winkle entered, and made a stiff inclination of the head. 
Having ordered the attendants to retire, and closed the door very carefully, he 
said, “ Mr. Winkle, I presume .? ” 

“My name is Winkle, sir.” 

“You will not be surprised, sir, when I inform you, that I have called here this 
morning on behalf of my friend. Dr. Slammer, of the Ninety-seventh.” 

“ Doctor Slammer ! ” said Mr. Winlde. 

“ Doctor Slammer. He begged me to express his opinion that your conduct 
of last evening was of a description which no gentleman could endure : and (he 
added) which no one gentleman would pursue towards another.” 

Mr. Winkle’s astonishment was too real, and too evident, to escape the obser- 
vation of Dr. Slammer’s friend; he therefore proceeded— “ My friend. Doctor 
Slammer, requested me to add, that he was firmly persuaded you were into.xicated 
during a portion of the evening, and possibly unconscious of the extent of the 
insult you were guilty of. He commissioned me to say, that should this be pleaded 
as an excuse for your behaviour, he will consent to accept a written apology, to be 
penned by you, from my dictation.” 

“ A written apology ! ” repeated Mr. Winkle, in the most emphatic tone of 
amazement possible. 


Tlte Pickwick Cliih. 


i6 


“ Of course you know the alternative,” replied the visitor, coolly. 

“Were you entrusted with this message to me, by name?” inquired Mr. 
Winkle, whose intellects were hopelessly confused by this extraordinary conver- 
sation. 

“ I was not present myself,” replied the visitor, “ and in consequence of your 
firm refusal to give your card to Doctor Slammer, I was desired by that gentleman 
to identify the wearer of a very uncommon coat— a bright blue dress coat, with a 
gilt button displaying a bust, and the letters ‘ P. C.’ ” 

Mr. Winkle actually staggered with astonishment as he heard his own costume 
thus minutely described. Doctor Slammer’s friend proceeded: — “From the in- 
quiries I made at the bar, just now, I was convinced that the owmer of the coat 
in question arrived here, with three gentlemen, yesterday afternoon. I immediately 
sent up to the gentleman who was described as appearing the head of the party, 
and he at once referred me to you.” 

If the principal tower of Rochester Castle had suddenly walked from its 
foundation, and stationed itself opposite the coffee-room window, Mr. Winkle’s 
surprise would have been as nothing compared with the profound astonishment 
with which he had heard this address. His first impression was, that his coat had 
been stolen. “ Will you allow me to detain you one moment ? ” said he. 

“ Certainly,” replied the unwelcome visitor. 

Mr. Winkle ran hastily up-stairs, and with a trembling hand opened the bag. 
There was the coat in its usual place, but exhibiting, on a close inspection, evident 
tokens of having been worn on the preceding night. 

“It must be so,” said Mr. Winkle, letting the coat fall from his hands. “I 
took too much wine after dinner, and have a very vague recollection of walking 
about the streets and smoking a cigar afterwards. The fact is, I was very drunk ; — 
I must have changed my coat — gone somewhere — and insulted somebody — I have 
no doubt of it ; and this message is the terrible consequence.” Saying which, 
Mr. Winkle retraced his steps in the direction of the coffee-room, with the gloomy 
and dreadful resolve of accepting the challenge of the warlike Doctor Slammer, 
and abiding by the worst consequences that might ensue. 

To this determination Mr. Winkle was urged by a variety of considerations ; 
the first of which was, his reputation with the club. He had always been looked 
up to as a high authority on all matters of amusement and dexterity, whether 
offensive, defensive, or inoffensive ; and if, on this very first occasion of being put 
to the test, he shrunk back from the trial, beneath his leader’s eye, bis name and 
standing were lost for ever. Besides, he remembered to have heard it frequently 
surmised by the uninitiated in such matters, that by an understood arrangement 
between the seconds, the pistols were seldom loaded with ball ; and, furtheimo’-'^, 
he reflected that if he applied to Mr. Snodgrass to act as his second, and depicted 
the danger in glowing terms, that gentleman might possibly communicate the 
intelligence to Mr. Pickwick, who would certainly lose no time in transmitting it 
to the local authorities, and thus prevent the killing or maiming of his follower. 

Such were his thoughts when he r eturned to the coffee-room, and intimated his 
intention of accepting the Doctor’s challenge. 

“ Will you refer me to a friend, to arrange tiie time and place of meeting ?* 
said the officer. 

“Quite unnecessary,” replied Mr. Winkle; “name them to me, and I can 
procure the attendance of a friend afterwards.” 

“ Shall we say — sunset this evening ? ” inquired the officer, in a careless tone. 

“ Very good,” replied Mr. Winkle ; thinking in his heart it was very bad. 

“ You know Fort Pitt ? ” 

“ Yes ; I saw it yesterd.iv.” 


On the Way to the Ground. 


“If yoa will take the trouble to turn into the field which borders the trench, 
take the foot-path to the left when you arrive at an angle of the fortificatioa 
and keep straight on ’till you see me, I will precede you to • secluded place, 
where the affair can be conducted without fear of interruption.” 

“ Fear of interruption ! ” thought Mr. Winkle. 

“ Nothing more to arrange, I think,” said the officer. 

“lam not aware of anything more,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“ Good morning.” 

“ Good morning : ” and the officer whistled a lively air as he strode away. 

That morning’s breakfast passed heavily off. Mr. Tupman was not in a con- 
dition to rise, after the unwonted dissipation of the previous night ; Mr. Snodgrass 
appeared to labour under a poetical depression of spirits ; and even Mr. Pickwick 
evinced an unusual attachment to silence and soda-water. Mr. Winkle eagerly 
watched his opportunity : it was not long wanting. Mr. Snodgrass proposed a 
visit to the castle, and as Mr. Winkle was the only other member of the party 
disposed to walk, they went out together. 

“ Snodgrass,” said Mr. Winkle, when they had turned out of the public street, 
“ Snodgrass, my dear fellow, can I rely upon your secrecy ? ” As he said this, he 
most devoutly and earnestly hoped he could not. 

“ You can,” replied Mr. Snodgrass. “ Hear me swear — ” 

“No, no,” interrupted Winkle, tenified at the idea of his companion’s uncon- 
sciously pledging himself not to give information; “don’t swear, don’t swear; 
it’s quite unnecessary.” 

Mr. Snodgrass dropped the hand which he had, in the spirit of poesy, raised 
towards the clouds as he made the above appeal, and assumed an attitude of 
attention. 

“ I want your assistance, my dear fellow, in an affair of honour,” said Mr. 
Winkle. 

“ You shall have it,” replied Mr. Snodgrass, clasping his friend’s hand. , 

“With a Doctor — Doctor Slammer, of the Ninety-seventh,” said Mr. Winkle, 
wishing to make the matter appear as solemn as possible ; “an afifair with an 
officer, seconded by another officer, at sunset this evening, in a lonely field beyond 
Fort Pitt.” 

“ I \vill attend you,” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

He was astonished, but by no means dismayed. It is extraordinary how cool 
any party but the principal can be in such cases. Mr. Winkle had forgotten this. 
He had judged of his friend’s feelings by his own. 

“ The consequences may be dreadful,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ I hope not,” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ The Doctor, I believe, is a very good shot,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ Most of these military men are,” observed Mr. Snodgrass, calmly; “but so 
are you, an’t you } ” 

Mr. Winkle replied in the affirmative ; and perceiving that he had not alaimed 
his companion sufficiently, changed his ground. 

“ Snodgrass,” he said, in a voice tremulous wth emotion, “if I fall, you will 
find in a packet which I shall place in your hands a note for my — for my father.” 

This attack was a failure also. Mr. Snodgrass was affected, but he undertook 
the delivery of the note as readily as if he had been a Twopenny Postman. 

“ If I fall,” said Mr. Winkle, “ or if the Doctor falls, you, my dear friend, will 
be tried as an accessory before the fact. Sb^ I involve my friend in transporta- 
tion— possibly for life ! ” 

Mr. Snodgrass winced a little at this, but iiis heroism was invincible. “ In the 
cause of friendship,” he fervently exclair^cJ, “I would brave all dangers.” 

c 


The Pickwick Club. 


i8 


How Mr. Winkle cursed his companion’s devoted friendship internally, as they 
walked silently along, side by side, for some minutes, each immersed in his own 
meditations ! The morning was wearing away ; he grew desperate. 

“ Snodgrass,” he said, stopping suddenly, “do wo/ let me be baulked in thi-j 
matter — do not give information to the local authorities — do not obtain the assist- 
ance of several peace officers, to take either me or Doctor Slammer, of the Ninety- 
seventh Regiment, at present quartered in Chatham Barracks, into custody, an<^ 
thus prevent this duel ; — I say, do wo/.” 

Mr. Snodgrass seized his friend’s liand Avarmly, as he enthusiastically rejilied, 
“Not for worlds ! ” 

A thrill passed over Mr. Winkle’s frame as the conviction that he had nothing 
to hope from his friend’s fears, and that he was destined to become an animated 
target, rushed forcibly upon him. 

The state of the case having been formally explained to Mr. Snodgrass, and a 
case of satisfaction pistols, with the satisfactory accompaniments of powder, ball, 
and caps, having been hired from a manufacturer in Rochester, the t\vo friends 
returned to their inn ; Mr. Winkle to ruminate on the approaching struggle, and 
Mr. Snodgrass to arrange the weapons of war, and put them into proper order for 
immediate use. 

It was a dull and heavy evening when they again sallied forth on their awkward 
errand. Mr. Winkle was muffled up in a huge cloak to escape obseiwation, and 
Mr. Snodgrass bore under his the instruments of destiaiction. 

“ Have you got everything ? ” said Mr. Winkle, in an agitated tone. 

“ Ev’rything,” replied Mr. Snodgrass ; “ plenty of ammunition, in case the shots 
don’t take effect. There’s a quarter of a pound of powder in the case, and I have 
got two newspapers in my pocket for the loadings.” 

These were instances of friendship for which any man might reasonably feel 
most grateful. The presumption is, that the gratitude of Mr. Winkle was too 
powerful for utterance, as he said nothing, but continued to walk on — rather 
slowly. 

“ We are in excellent time,” said Mr. Snodgrass, as they climbed the fence ol 
the first field; “the sun is just going down.” Mr. Winkle looked up at the 
declining orb, and painfully thought of the probability of his “ going dowm” him- 
self, before long. 

“ There’s the officer,” exclaimed Mr. Winkle, after a few minutes’ walking. 

“ Where } ” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ There ; — the gentleman in the blue cloak.” Mr. Snodgrass looked in the 
direction indicated by the forefinger of his friend, and observed a figure, muffled 
up, as he had described. The officer evinced his consciousness of their presence 
by slightly beckoning with his hand ; and the two friends followed him at a little 
distance, as he walked away. 

The evening grew more dull every moment, and a melancholy wind sounded 
through the deserted fields, like a distant giant whistling for his house-dog. The 
sadness of the scene imparted a sombre tinge to the feelings of Mr. Winkle. He 
started as they passed the angle of the trench — it looked like a colossal grave. 

The officer turned suddenly from the path, and after climbing a paling, and 
scaling a hedge, entered a secluded field. Two gentlemen were waiting in it ; one 
was a little fot man, with black hair ; and the other — a portly personage in a 
braided surtout -was sitting with perfect equanimity on a camp-stool. 

“ The other party, and a surgeon, I suppose,” said Mr. Snodgrass ; “ take a 
drop of brandy.” Mr. Winkle seized the wicker bottle which his friend proffered, 
and took a lengthened pull at the exhilarating liquid. 

“ My friend, sir, Mr. Snodgrass,” said Mr. Winkle, as the officer appioachf;d. 


On the Ground. 


!? 

Doctor Slammer’s friend bowed, and produced a case similar to that which Mr. 
Snod^ass carried. 

“ We have nothing farther to say, sir, I think,” he coldly remarked, as he 
‘Opened the case ; “ an apology has been resolutely declined.” 

“ Nothing, sir,” said Mr. Snodgrass, who began to feel rather uncomfortable 
himself. 

“ Will you step forward ?” said the officer. 

“ Certainly,” replied Mr. Snodgrass. The ground was measured, and pre- 
liminaries airanged. 

“ You will find these better than your owm,” said the opposite second, producing 
his pistols. “ You saw me load them. Do you object to use them ? ” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Mr. Snodgrass. The offer relieved him from con- 
siderable embarrassment, for his previous notions of loading a pistol were rather 
vague and undefined. 

“We may place our men, then, I think,” observed the officer, with as much 
indifference as if the principals were chess-men, and the seconds players. 

“ I think we may,” replied Mr. Snodgrass ; wiio would have assented to any 
proposition, because he knew nothing about the matter. The officer crossed to 
Doctor Slammer, and Mr. Snodgrass went up to Mr. Winkle. 

“ It’s all ready,” he said, offering the pistol. “ Give me your cloak.” 

“ You have got the packet, my dear fellow,” said poor Winkle. 

“ All right,” said Mr. Snodgrass. “ Be steady, and wing him.” 

It occurred to Mr. Winkle that this advice was very like that which bystanders 
invariably give to the smallest boy in a street fight, namely, “ Go in, and win ; ” 
— an admirable thing to recommend, if you only know how to do it. He took off 
his cloak, however, in silence — it always took a long time to undo, that cloak — and 
accepted the pistol. The seconds retired, the gentleman on the camp-stool did 
the same, and the belligerents approached each other. 

Mr. Winkle was alw'ays remarkable for extreme humanity. It is conjectured 
that his unwillingness to hurt a fellow-creature intentionally was the cause of his 
shutting his eyes when he arrived at the fatal spot ; and that the circumstance of 
his eyes being closed, prevented his observing the very extraordinary and unaccount- 
able demeanour of Doctor Slammer. That gentleman started, stared, retreated, 
rubbed his eyes, stared again ; and, finally, shouted “ Stop, stop ! ” 

“What’s all this said Doctor Slammer, as his friend and Mr. Snodgrass 
came running up ; “That’s not the man.” 

“Not the man ! ” sgiid Dr. Slammer’s second. 

“ Not the man ! ” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ Not the man ! ” said the gentleman with the camp-stool in his hand. 

“ Certainly not,” replied the little Doctor. “ That’s not the person who insulted 
me last night.” 

“ Very extraordinary ! ” exclaimed the officer. 

“ Veiy,” said the gentleman with the camp-stool. “ The only question is, 
whether the gentleman, being on the ground, must not be considered, as a matter 
of form, to be the individual who insulted our friend, Doctor Slammer, yesterday 
evening, whether he is really that individual or not : ” and having delivered this 
suggestion, with a very sage and mysterious air, the man with the camp-stool took 
a large pinch of snuff, and looked profoundly round, with the air of an authority 
in such matters. 

Now Mr. Winkle had opened his eyes, and his ears too, when he heard his 
adi ersary call out for a cessation of hostilities ; and perceiving by what he had 
aftei-wards said, that there was, beyond all question, some mistake in the matter, 
he at once foresaw the increas® of reputation he should inevitably acquire ny 


to 


The Pickwick Cluh. 


concealing the real motive of his coming out: he therefore stepped boldly forwaiJ, 
and said — 

“ I am not the person. I know it.” 

“ Then, that,” said the man with the camp-stool, “is an affront to Dr. Slammer, 
and a sufficient reason for proceeding immediately.” 

“Pray be quiet, Payne,” said the Doctor’s second. “Why did you not conr- 
municate this fact to me this morning, sir } ” 

“To be sure-- to be sure,” said the man with the camp-stool, indignantly. 

“ I entreat you to be quiet, Payne,” said the other. “ May I repeat my ques- 
tion, sir ? ” 

“ Bc'.ause, sir,” replied Mr. Winkle, who had had time to deliberate upon his 
answer, “ because, sir, you described an intoxicated and ungentlemanly person as 
wearing a coat -which I have the honour, not only to wear, but to have invented — 
the proposed uniform, sir, of the Pickwick Club in London. The honour of that 
uniform I feel bound to maintain, and I therefore, -without inquiry, accepted the 
challenge which you offered me.” 

“ My dear sir,” said the good-humoured little Doctor, advancing with extended 
hand, “ I honour your gallantly. Permit me to say, sir, that I highly admire 
your conduct, and extremely regret having caused you the inconvenience of this 
meeting, to no purpose.” 

“ I beg you won’t mention it, sir,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“I shall feel proud of your acquaintance, sir,” said the little Doctor. 

“It will afford me the greatest pleasure to know you, sir,” replied Mr. Winkle. 
Thereupon the Doctor and Mr. Winkle shook hands, and then Mr. Winkle 
and Lieutenant Tappleton (the Doctor’s second), and then Mr. Winkle and the 
man with the camp-stool, and, finally, Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass — the 
last-named gentleman in an excess of admuation at the noble conduct of his 
heroic friend. 

“ I think we may adjourn,” said Lieutenant Tappleton. 

“ Certainly,” added the Doctor. 

“ Unless,” interposed the man with the camp-stool, “unless Mr. Winkle feels 
himself aggrieved by the challenge ; in which case, I submit, he has a right to 
satisfaction.” 

Mr. Winkle, with great self-denial, expressed himself quite satisfied already. 

“Or possibly,” said the man with the camp-stool, “the gentleman’s second may 
feel himself affronted with some obseiwations which fell from me at an early 
period of this meeting ; if so, I shall be happy to give him satisfaction im- 
mediately.” 

Mr. Snodgrass hastily professed himself very much obliged with the handsome 
offer of the gentleman who had spoken last, which he was only induced to de- 
cline by his entire contentment with the whole proceedings. The two seconds 
adjusted the cases, and the whole party left the giound in a much more lively 
manner than they had proceeded to it. 

“ Do you remain long here ? ” inquired Dr. Slammer of Mr. Winkle, as the} 
walked on most amicably together. 

“ I think we shall leave here the day after to-moiTOw,” was the reply. 

“ I trust I shall have the pleasure of seeing you and your friend at my rooms, 
and of spending a pleasant evening with you, after this awkward mistake,” said 
tire little Doctor ; “ are you disengaged this evening ? ” 

“ We have some friends here,” replied Mr. Winkle, <* and I should not like to 
leave them to-night. Perhaps you and your friend will join us at the Bull.” 

“ With great pleasure,” said the little Doctor ; “ will ten o’clock be too late to 
I >ok in for half an hour ? ” 


Dismal Jemmy 


ai 


“ Oh dear, no,” said Mr. Winkle. “ I shall be most happy to introduce you 
to my friends, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman.” 

“ It will give me great pleasure, I am sure,” replied Doctor Slammer, little 
suspecting who Mr. Tupman was. 

“ You will be sure to come ? ” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ Oh, certainly.” 

By this time they had reached the road. Cordial farewells were exchanged, 
and the party separated. Doctor Slammer and his friends repaired to the 
barracks, and Mr. Winkle, accompanied by his friend, Mr. Snodgrass, retmned 
to their inn. 


CHAPTER III. 

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. THE STROLLER’S TALE. A DISAGREEABLE INTER- 
RUPTION, AND AN UNPLEASANT ENCOUNTER. 

Mr. Pickwick had felt some apprehensions in consequence of the unliSual 
absence of his two friends, which their mysterious behaviour during the whole 
morning had by no means tended to diminish. It was, therefore, with more than 
ordinary pleasure that he rose to greet them when they again entered ; and with 
more than ordinary interest that he inquired what had occurred to detain them 
from his society. In reply to his questions on this point, Mr. Snodgrass was 
about to offer an historical account of the circumstances just now detailed, when 
he was suddenly checked by observing that there were present, not only Mr. 
Tupman and their stage-coach companion of the preceding day, but another 
stranger of equally singular appearance. It was a care-worn looking man, whose 
sallow face, and deeply sunken eyes, were rendered still more striking than nature 
had made them, by the straight black hair which hung in matted disorde. half 
way down his face. His eyes were almost unnaturally bright and piercing ; his 
cheek-bones were high and prominent ; and his jaws were so long and lank, that 
an obseiwer would have supposed that he was drawing the flesh of his face in, for 
a moment, by some contraction of the muscles, if his half-opened mouth and 
immovable expression had not announced that it was his ordinary appearance. 
Round his neck he wore a gieen shawl, with the large ends straggling over his 
chest, and making their appearance occasionally beneath the worn button-holes 
of his old waistcoat. His upper garment was a long black surtout ; and below it 
he wore wide drab trousers, and large boots, running rapidly to seed. 

It was on this uncouth-looking person that Mr. Winkle’s eye rested, and it 
was towards him that Mr. Pickwick extended his hand, whe*' he said “A friend 
of our friend’s here. We discovered this morning that our fu '^d was connected 
with the theatre in this place, though he is not desirous to have it generally known, 
and this gentleman is q . member of the same profession. He was about to favour 
us with a little anecdote connected with it, when you entered.” 

“ Lots of anecdote,” said the green-coated stranger of the day before, advancing 
to Mr. Winkle and speaking in a low and confidential tone. “ Rum fellow- 
does the heavy business — no actor — strange man — all sorts of miseries — Dismal 
Jemmy, we call him on the circuit.” Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass politely 
welcomed the gentleman, elegantly designated a* “ Dismal Jemmy;” and calling 
for brandy and water, in imitation of the remainder of the company, seated them- 
selves at the table. 


22 


The Pichvicn Chib. 


“ Now, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ will you oblige us by proceeding with what 
you were going to relate ” 

The dismal individual took a dirty roll of paper from his pocket, and turning to 
Mr. Snodgrass, who had just taken out his note-book, said in a hollow voice per- 
fectly in keeping with his outward man — “ Are you the poet ” 

“ I — I do a little in that way,” replied Mr. Snodgiass, rather taken aback by 
(he abruptness of the question. 

“Ah ! poetiy makes life what lights and music do the stage — strip the one of 
its false embellishments, and the oSier of its illusions, and what is there real in 
either to live or care for } ” 

“ Very true, sir,” replied Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ To be before the footlights,” continued the dismal man, “ is like sitting at a 
gland, court show, and admiring the silken dresses of the gaudy throng — to be 
behind them is to be the people who make that fineiy, uncared for and unknown, 
and left to sink or swim, to staiwe or live, as fortune wills it.” 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Snodgrass : for the sunken eye of the dismal man rested 
on him, and he felt it necessaiy to say something. 

“ Go on. Jemmy,” said the Spanish traveller, “like black-eyed Susan — all in 
the Downs — no croaking — speak out— look lively.” 

“ Will you make another glass before you begin, sir .? ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

The dismal man took the hint, and having mixed a glass of brandy and water, 
and slowly swallowed half of it, opened the roll of paper and proceeded, partly to 
read, and partly to relate, the following incident, w'hich we find recorded on the 
Transactions of tire club as “ The Stroller’s Tale.” 

THE STROLLER’S TALE. 

“ There is nothing of the maiwellous in what I am going to relate,” said the 
dismal man ; “ there is nothing even uncommon in it. Want and sickness are too 
common in many stations of life, to deseiwe more notice than is usually bestowed 
on the most ordinary vicissitudes of human nature. I have thrown these few 
notes together, because the subject of them was well kno^vn to me for many 
years. I traced his progress downwards, step by step, until at last he reached 
that excess of destitution from which he never rose again. 

“The man of whom I speak was a low pantomime actor; and, like many 
people of his class, an habitual drunkard. In his better days, before he had 
become enfeebled by dissipation and emaciated by disease, he had been in the 
receipt of a good salaiy, which, if he had been careful and prudent, he might have 
continued to receive for some years — not many ; because these men either die 
early, or, by unnaturally taxing their bodily energies, lose, prematurely, those 
physical powers on which alone they can depend for subsistence. His besetting 
sin gained so fast upon him, however, that it was found impossible to employ him 
in the situations in which he really was useful to the theatre. The public-house 
had a fascination for him which he could not resist. Neglected disease and hope- 
less poverty were as Certain to be his portion as death itself, if he persevered in 
the same course ; yet he did persevere, and the result may fee guessed. He could 
obtain no engagement, and he wanted bread. 

“ Everybody who is at all acquainted with theatrical matters knows what a host 
of shabby, poverty-stricken men hang about the stage of a large establishment— 
not regularly engaged actors, but ballet people, procession men, tumble’-s, and so 
forth, who are taken on during the run of a pantomime, or an Easter piece, and 
are then discharged, until the production of some heavy spectacle occasions a new 
demand for their sendees. To this mode of life the man was -compelled to resort ; 
and taking the chair every night, at some low theatrical house, at once put him in 


A Tumbler tumbling downward. 23 

possession of a few more shillings weekly, and enabled him to Ratify his old pro- 
pensity. Even this resource shortly failed him ; his inegularities were too great 
to admit of his earning the wretched pittance he might thus have procured, and 
he was actually reduced to a state bordering on starvation, only procuring a trifle 
occasionally by borrowing it of some old companion, or by obtaining an appear- 
ance at o le or other of the commonest of the minor theatres ; and when he did 
earn anytliing, it was spent in the old way. 

“ About this time, and when he had been existing for upwards of a year no one 
kf ew how, I had a short engagement at one of the theatres on the Surrey side ol 
the water, and here I saw this man whom I had lost sight of for some time ; for I 
had been travelling in the provinces, and he had been skulking in the lanes and 
alleys of London. I was dressed to leave the house, and was crossing the stage 
on my way out, when he tapped me on the shoulder. Never shall I forget the 
repulsive sight that met my eye when I turned round. He was dressed for the 
pantomime, in all the absurdity of a clo-wm’s costume. The spectral figures in the 
Dance of Death, the most frightful shapes that the ablest painter ever portrayed 
on canvas, never presented an appearance half so ghastly. His bloated body and 
shrunken legs — their deformity enhanced a hundred fold by the fantastic dress — 
the glassy eyes, contrasting fearfully with the thick white paint with which the 
face was besmeared ; the grotesquely ornamented head, trembling with paralysis, 
and the long, skinny hands, rubbed with white chalk — all gave him a hideous and 
unnatural appearance, of which no description could convey an adequate idea, and 
which, to this day, I shudder to think of. His voice was hollow and tremulous, 
as he took me aside, and in broken words recounted a long catalogue of sickness 
and privations, terminating as usual with an urgent request for the loan of a trifling 
sum of money. I put a few shillings in his hand, and as I turned away I heard 
the roar of laughter which followed his first tumble on to the stage. 

“A few nights afterwards, a boy put a dirty scrap of paper in my hand, on 
which were scrawled a few words in pencil, intimating that the man was danger- 
ously ill, and begging me, after the performance, to see him at his lodging in some 
street — I forget the name of it now — at no gieat distance from the theatre. I 
promised to comply, as soon as I could get away ; and, after the curtain fell, sal- 
lied forth on my melancholy enand. 

“ It was late, for I had been playing in the last piece ; and as it was a benefit 
night, the performances had been protracted to an unusual length. It was a dark 
cold night, with a chill damp wind, which blew the rain heavily against the win- 
dows and house fronts. Pools of water had collected in the nairow and little- 
frequented streets, and as many of the thinly-scattered oil-lamps had been blown 
out by the violence of the wind, the walk was not only a comfortless, but most 
uncertain one. I had fortunately taken the right course, however, and succeeded, 
after a little difficulty, in finding the house to which I had been directed — a coal- 
.shed, with one story above it, in the back room of which lay the object of my 
search. 

“A wretched-looking woman, the man’s wife, met me on the stairs, and, tellinjg 
me that he had just fallen into a kind of doze, led me softly in, and placed a chair 
for me at the bedside. The sick man was lying with his face turned towards the 
wall ; and as he took no heed of my presence, I had leisure to obsei-ve the place in 
which I found myself. 

“He was lying on an old bedstead, which turned up during the day. The 
tattered remains of a checked curtain were drawn round the bed’s head, to exclude 
the wind, which however made its way into the comfortless room through the 
numerous chinks in the door, and blew it to and fro every instant. There was a 
low cinder fire in a nsty unfixed grate; and «« old three-cornere^i stained table, 


*4 


The Pickwick Club. 


with some medicine bottles, a broken glass, and a few other domestic articles, was 
drawn out before it. A little child was sleeping on a temporary bed which had 
been made for it on the floor, and the woman sat on a chair by its side. There 
were a couple of shelves, with a few plates and cups and saucers : and a pair of 
stage shoes and a couple of foils hung beneath them. With the exception of 
little heaps of rags and bundles which had been carelessly thrown into the corners 
of the room, these were the only things in the apartment. 

“ I had had time to note these little particulars, and to mark the heavy breathing 
and feverish startings of the sick man, before he was aware of my presence. In 
his restless attempts to procure some easy resting-place for his head, he tossed his 
hand out of the bed, and it fell on mine. He started up, and stared eagerly in 
my face. 

“ ‘ Mr. Hutley, John,’ said his wife; ‘Mr. Hutley, that you sent for to-night, 

you know.’ 

“‘Ah!’ said the invalid, passing his hand «.cross his forehead; ‘Hutley — 
Hutley — let me see.’ He seemed endeavouring lo collect his thoughts for a few 
seconds, and then grasping me tightly by the wiist said, “ Don’t leave me — don’t 
leave me, old fellow. She’ll murder me ; I know she will.’ 

“ ‘ Has he been long so said I, addressing his weeping wife. 

“ ‘ Since yesterday night,’ she replied. ‘ John, John, don’t you know me ?’ 

“ ‘ Don’t let her come near me,’ said the man, with a shudder, as she stooped 
over him. ‘ Drive her away ; I can’t bear her near me.’ He stared wildly at her, 
with a look of deadly apprehension, and then whispered in my ear, ‘ I beat her, 
Jem ; I beat her yesterday, and many times before. I have starved her and the 
boy too ; and now I am weak and helpless, Jem, she’ll murder me for it ; I know 
she will. If you’d seen her cry, as I have, you’d know it too. Keep her off.’ He 
relaxed his grasp, and sank back exhausted on the pillow. 

“ I knew but too well what all this meant. If I could have entertained any 
doubt of it, for an instant, one glance at the woman’s pale face and wasted form 
would have sufficiently explained the real state of the case. ‘You had better 
stand aside,’ said I to the poor creature. ‘You can do him no good. Perhaps he 
will be calmer, if he does not see you.’ She retired out of the man’s sight. He 
opened his eyes, after a few seconds, and looked anxiously round. 

“ ‘ Is she gone he eagerly inquired. 

“ ‘ Yes — yes,’ said I ; ‘ she shall not hurt you.’ 

“ ‘ I’ll tell you what, Jem,’ said the man, in a low voice, ‘she does hurt me. 
There’s something in her eyes wakes such a dreadful fear in my heart, that it 
drives me mad. All last night, her large staring eyes and pale face veere close to 
mine ; wherever I turned, they turned ; and whenever I started up from my sleep, 
she was at the bedside looking at me.’ He drew me closer to him, as he said in a 
deep, alarmed whteper—‘ Jem, she must be an evil spirit— a devil I Hush! I 
know she is. If she had been a woman she would have died long ago. No 
woman could have borne what she has.’ 

“ I sickened at the thought of the long course of cruelty and neglect which must 
have occurred to produce such an impression on such a man. I could say 
nothing in reply ; for who could offer hope, or consolation, to the abject beini 
before me ? 

“I sat there for upwards of two hours, during which time he tossed about, 
murmuring exclamations of pain or impatience, restlessly throwing his arms here 
and there, and turning constantly from side to side. At length he fell into that state 
of partial unconsciousness, in which the mind wanders uneasily from scene to scene, 
and from place to place, without the control of reason, but still without being able 
to divest itself of an indescribable sense of present suffering. Finding from his 


The Sick Clown. 


incoherent wandeiings that this was the case, and knowing that in ah probability 
the fever would not grow immediately worse, I left him, promising his miserable 
wife that I w’ould ) epeat my visit next evening, and, if necessary, sit up with the 
patient during the night. 

“ I kept my promise. The last four-and-twenty hours had produced a frightful 
alteration. The eyes, though deeply sunk and heavy, shone with a lustre frightful 
to behold. The lips w’ere parched, and cracked in many places : the dry hard 
skin glowed with a burning heat, and there was an almost unearthly air of wild 
anxiety in the man’s face, indicating even more strongly the ravages of the disease. 
The fever was at its height. 

“I took the seat I had occupied the night before, and there I sat for hours, 
listening to sounds which must strike deep to the heart of the most callous among 
human beings — the awful ravings of a dying man. From w'hat I had heard of the 
medical attendant’s opinion, I knew there was no hope for him : I was sitting by 
his death-bed. I saw the wasted limbs, which a few hours before had been dis- 
torted for the amusement of a boisterous gallery, writhing under the tortures of a 
burning fever — I heard the clown’s shrill laugh, blending with the low murmur- 
ings of the dying man. 

“ It is a touching thing to hear the mind reverting to the ordinary occupations 
and pursuits of health, when the body lies before you weak and helpless ; but 
when those occupations are of a character the most strongly opposed to anything 
we associate with grave or solemn ideas, the impression produced is infinitely more 
powerful. The theatre, and the public-house, were the chief themes of the 
wretched man’s wanderings. It was evening, he fancied ; he had a part to play 
that night ; it was late, and he must leave home instantly. Why did they hold 
him, and prevent his going ? — he should lose the money — he must go. No ! they 
would not let him. He hid his face in his burning hands, and feebly bemoaned 
his own weakness, and the cruelty of his persecutors. A short pause, and he 
shouted out a few doggrel rhymes — the last he had ever learnt. He rose in bed, 
drew up his withered limbs, and rolled about in uncouth positions ; he was acting 
— he was at the theatre. A minute’s silence, and he murmured the burden of 
some roaring song. He had reached the old house at last : how hot the room 
was. He had been ill, veiy ill, but he was well now, and happy. Fill up his 
glass. Who was that, that dashed it from his lips ? It was the same persecutor 
that had followed him before. He fell back upon his pillow and moaned aloud. 
A short period of oblivion, and he was wandering through a tedious maze of low 
arched-rooms — so low, sometimes, that he must creep upon his hands and knees 
to make his way along ; it was close and dark, and every way he turned, some 
obstacle impeded his progress. There were insects too, hideous crawling things 
with eyes that stared upon him, and filled the very air around ; glistening horribly 
amidst the thick darkness of the place. The walls and ceiling were alive with 
reptiles — the vault expanded to an enormous size —frightful figures flitted to and 
fro— and the faces of men he knew, rendered hideous by ^bing and mouthing, 
peered out from among them ; they were searing him with heated irons, and 
binding his head with cords till the blood started ; and he struggled madly for 
life. 

“ At the close of one of these paroxysms, when I had with great difficulty held 
him down in his bed, he sank into what appeared to be a slumber. Overpowered 
with atching and exertion, I had closed my eyes for a few minutes, when I felt 
a violent clutch on my shoulder. I awoke instantly. He had raised himself up, 
so as tc seat himself in bed— a dreadful change had come over his face, but con- 
sciousness had returned, for he evidently knew me. The child who had been long 
since <i3turbed by his ravings, rose from its little bed, and ran towards its fathej. 


26 


The Pickwick Club, 


screaming with fright —the mother hastily caught it in her arms, lest he should 
injure it in the violence of his insanity ; but, terrified by the alteration of his 
features, stood transfixed by the bed-side. He grasped my shoulder convulsively, 
and, striking his breast with the other hand, made a desperate attempt to articu- 
late. It was unavailing — he extended his arm towards them, and made another 
violent effort. There was a rattling noise in the throat — a glaie of the eye — a 
short stifled groan — and he fell back — dead ! ” 

It would afford us the highest gratification to be enabled to record Mr. Pick- 
udck’s opinion of the foregoing anecdote. We have little doubt that we should 
have been enabled to present it to our readers, but for a most unfortunate occur- 
rence. 

Mr. Pickwick had replaced on the table the glass which, during the last few 
sentences of the tale, he had retained in his hand ; and had just made up his mind 
to speak — indeed, we have the authority of Mr. Snodgrass’s note-book for stating, 
that he had actually opened his mouth — when tire waiter entered the room, and 
said — 

“ Some gentlemen, sir.” 

It has been conjectured that Mr. Pickwick was bn the point of delivering some 
remarks which w'ould have enlightened the world, if not the Thames, when ne was 
thus interrupted : for he gazed sternly on the waiter’s countenance, and then 
looked round on the company generally, as if seeking for information relative to 
the new comers. 

“ Oh ! ” said Mr. Winkle, rising, “ some friends of mine — show them in. Very 
pleasant fellows,” added Mr. Winkle, after the waiter had retired — “ Officers of 
the 97th, whose acquaintance I made rather oddly this morning. You will like 
them very much.” 

Mr. Pickwick’s equanimity was at once restored. The waiter returned, and 
ushered three gentlemen into the room. 

“Lieutenant Tappleton,” said Mr. Winkle, “Lieutenant Tappleton, Mi 
Pickwick — Doctor Payne, Mr. Pickwick — Mr. Snodgi'ass, you have seen before* 
my friend Mr. Tupman, Doctor Payne — Dr. Slammer, Mr. Pickwick — Mr. 
Tupman, Doctor Slam — .” 

Here Mr. Winkle suddenly paused; for strong emotion was visible on the 
countenance both of Mr. Tupman and the Doctor. 

“ I have met this gentleman before,” said the Doctor, with marked emphasis. 

“ Indeed ! ” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ And — and that person, too, if I am not mistaken,” said the Doctor, bestow- 
ing a scrutinising glance on the green-coated stranger. “ I think I gave that 
person a very pressing invitation last night, which he thought proper to decline.” 
Saying which the Doctor scowled magnanimously on the stranger, and whispered 
his friend Lieutenant Tappleton. 

“You don’t say so,” said that gentleman, at the conclusion of the whisper. 

“ I do, indeed,” replied Doctor Slammer. 

“ You are bound to kick him on the spot,” murmured the owner of the camp- 
stool with great importance. 

“ Do be quiet, Payne,” interposed the Lieutenant. “ Will you allow me to ask 
you, sir,” he said, addressing Mr. Pickwick, who was considerably mystified by 
this very unpolite by-play, “ will you allow me to ask you, sir, whether that 
person belongs to your party .? ” 

“ No, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “ he is a guest of ours.” 

“He is a member of your club, or I am mistaken?” said the Lieutenant, 
inquiringly. 


The Affair of Honour melts away, 

“ Certainly not.” responded Mr. Pickwick. 

“And never wears your club-button ? ” said the Lieutenant. 

“_No — never ! ” replied the astonished Mr. Pickwick. 

Lieutenant Tappleton turned round to his friend Doctor Slammer, with a 
scarcely perceptible shrug of the shoulder, as if implying some doubt of the' 
accuracy of his recollection. The little Doctor looked wrathful, but confounded ; 
and Mr. Payne gazed with a ferocious aspect on the beaming countenance of the 
unconscious Pickwick. 

“ Sir,” said the Doctor, suddenly addressing Mr. Tupman, in a tone which 
made that gentleman start as perceptibly as if a pin had been cunningly inserted 
in the calf of his leg, “ you were at the ball here last night ! ” 

Mr. Tupman gasped a faint affirmative, looking very hard at Mr. Pickwick all 
the while. 

“ That person was your companion,” said the Doctor, pointing to the stiU 
unmoved stranger. 

Mr. Tupman admitted the fact. 

“ Now, sir,” said the Doctor to the stranger, “ I ask you once again, in the 
presence of these gentlemen, whether you choose to give me your card, and to 
receive the treatment of a gentleman ; or whether you impose upon me the 
necessity of personally chastising you on the spot ? ” 

“ Stay, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ I really cannot allow this matter to go any 
further without some explanation. Tupman, recount the circumstances.” 

Mr. Tupman, thus solemnly abjured, stated the case in a few words ; touched 
slightly on the borrowing of the coat ; expatiated largely on its having been done 
“ after dinner ; ” wound up with a little penitence on his own account ; and left 
the stranger to clear himself as he best could. 

He was apparently about to proceed to do so, when Lieutenant Tappleton, who 
had been eyeing him with great cmiosity, said with considerable scorn — “ Haven’t 
I seen you at the theatre, sir ? ” 

“Certainly,” replied the unabashed stranger. 

“He is a strolling actor,” said the Lieutenant, contemptuously; turning to 
Dr. Slammer — “He acts in the piece that the Officers of the 52nd get up at the 
Rochester Theatre to-morrow night. You cannot proceed in this affair, Slammer 
— impossible ! ” 

“ Quite ! ” said the dignified Payne. 

“ Sorry to have placed you in this disagreeable situation,” said Lieutenant 
Tappleton, addressing Mr. Pickwick ; “ allow me to suggest, that the best way of 
avoiding a recurrence of such scenes in future, will be to be more select in the 
choice of your companions. Good evening, sir 1 ” and tire Lieutenant bounced out 
of the room. 

“ And allow me to say, sir,” said the irascible Doctor Payne, “ that if I had 
been Tappleton, or if I had been Slammer, I would have pulled your nose, sir, 
and the nose of every man in this company. I would, sir, every man. Payne is 
my name, sir — Doctor Payne of the 43rd. Good evening, sir.” Having concluded 
this speech, and uttered the three last words in a loud key, he stalked majestically 
after his friend, closely followed by Doctor Slammer, who said nothing, but 
contented himself by withering the company with a look. 

Rising rage and extreme bewilderment had swelled the noble breast of Mr. 
Pickwick, almost to tlie bursting of his waistcoat, during the delivery of the above 
defiance. He stood transfixed to the spot, gazing on vacancy. The closing of 
the door recalled him to himself. He rushed forward with fury in his looks, 
and fire in his eye. His hand was upon the lock of the door ; in another 
instant it wtuld have been on the throat of Doctor Payne of the 43r d, had not 


28 The Pickwick Club, 

Mr. Snodgiaf.s seized his revered leader by the coat tail, and dragged him back* 
wards. 

“ Restrain him,” cried Mr. Snodgrass, “Winkle, Tupman — he must not peril 
his distinguished life in such a cause as this.” 

“ Let me go,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Hold him tight,” shouted Mr. Snodgi'ass ; and by the united efforts of the 
whole company, Mr. Pickwick was forced into an arm-chair. 

“ Leave him alone,” said the green-coated stranger— “ brandy and water — jolly 
old gentleman — lots of pluck — swallow this — ah! — capital stuff.” Having pre- 
viously tested the virtues of a bumper, which had been mixed by the dismal man . 
the stranger applied the glass to Mr. Pickwick’s mouth ; and the remainder of its 
contents rapidly disappeared. 

There was a short pause ; the brandy and water had done its work ; the amiable 
countenance of Mr. Pickwick was fast recovering its customary expression. 

“They are not worth your notice,” said the dismal man. 

“ You are right, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “ they are not. I am ashamed to 
have been betrayed into this warmth of feeling. Draw your chair up to the table, 
sir.” 

The dismal man readily complied : a circle was again formed round the table, 
and harmony once more prevailed. Some lingering irritability appeared to find a 
resting-place in Mr. Winkle’s bosom, occasioned possibly by the temporary 
abstraction of his coat — though it is scarcely reasonable to suppose that so slight 
a circumstance can have excited even a passing feeling of anger in a Pickwickian 
breast. With this exception, their good humour was completely restored ; and 
the evening concluded with the conviviality with which it had begun. 


CHAPTER IV. 

A FIELD-DA'S AND BIVOUAC. MORE NE'W FRIENDS. AN INVITATION TO 

THE COUNTRY. 

Many authors entertain, not only a foolish, but a really dishonest objection to 
acknowledge the sources from whence they derive much valuable information. 
We have no such feeling. We are merely endeavouring to discharge, in an up- 
right manner, the responsible duties of our editorial functions ; and whatever 
ambition we might have felt under other circumstances to lay claim to the author- 
ship of these adventures, a regard for truth forbids us to do more than claim the 
merit of their judicious arrangement and impartial narration. The Pickwick 
papers are our New River Head ; and we may be compared to the New River 
Company. The labours of others have raised for us an immense reservoir of 
important facts. We merely lay them on, and communicate them, in a clear and 
gentle stream, through the medium of these numbers, to a world thirsting for 
Pickwickian knowledge. 

Acting in this spirit, and resolutely proceeding on our determination to avow 
our obligations to the authorities we have consulted, we frankly say, that ^o the 
note-book of Mr. Snodgrass are we indebted for the particulars recorded in this, 
and the succeeding chapter — particulars which, now that we have disburdened 
our conscience, we shall proceed to detail without further comment. 

The whole population of Rochester and the adjoining towns rose from their 
beds at an early hour of the following morning, in a state of the utmost bustle 


The Humours of a Crowd. 


29 


and excitement. A grand review was to take place upon the Lines. The ma 
noeuvres of half-a-dozen regiments were to be inspected by the eagle eye of the 
commander- in-chief ; temporary fortifications had been erected, the citadel was to 
be attacked and taken, and a mine was to be spning. 

Mr. Pickwick was, as our readers may have gathered from the slight extract we 
gave from his description of Chatham, an enthusiastic admirer of the army. 
Nothing could have been more delightful to him — nothing could could have har- 
monised so well with the peculiar feeling of each of his companions — as this 
sight. Accordingly they were soon a-foot, and walking in the direction of the 
scene of action, towards which crowds of people were already pouring from a 
variety of quarters. 

The appearance of everything on the Lines denoted that the approaching 
ceremony was one of the utmost grandeur and importance. There were sentries 
posted to keep the ground for the troops, and servants on the batteries keeping 
places for the ladies, and sergeants running to and fro, with vellum-covered books 
under their arms, and Colonel Bidder, in full military uniform, on horseback, galloping 
first to one place and then to another, and backing his horse among the people, and 
prancing, and curvetting, and shouting in a most alarming manner, and making 
himself very hoarse in the voice, and very red in the face, without any assignable 
cause or reason whatever. Officers were running backwards and forwards, first 
communicating with Colonel Bulder, and then ordering the sergeants, and then 
running away altogether ; and even the very privates themselves looked from 
behind their glazed stocks with an air of mysterious solemnity, which sufficiently 
bespoke the special nature of the occasion. 

Mr. Pickwick and his three companions stationed themselves in the front rank 
of the crowd, and patiently aw.iiied the commencement of the proceedings. 
The throng was increasing evei y moment ; and the efforts they were compelled 
to make, to retain the position they had gained, sufficiently occupied their atten- 
tion during the two hours that ensued. At one time there was a sudden pressure 
from behind ; and then Mr. Pickwick was jerked foiAvard for several yards ■ with a 
degree of speed and elasticity highly inconsistent with the general gravity of his 
demeanour; at another moment there was a request to “keep back” from the 
front, and then the but-end of a musket was either dropped upon Mr. Pickwick's 
toe, to remind him of the demand, or thrust into his chest, to ensure its being 
complied with. Then some facetious gentlemen on the left, after pressing side- 
ways in a body, and squeezing Mr. Snodgiass into the very last extreme of human 
torture, would request to know “vere he vos a shovin’ to;” and when Mr. 
Winkle had done expressing his excessive indignation at witnessing this unpro- 
voked assault, some person behind would knock his hat over his eyes, and beg 
the favour of his putting his head in his pocket. These, and other practical 
witticisms, coupled with the unaccountable absence of Mr. Tupnian (who had 
suddenly disappeared, and was nowhere to be found), rendered their situation 
upon the whole rather more uncomfortable than pleasing or desirable. 

At length that low roar of many voices ran through the crowd, which usually 
announces the arrival of whatever they have been waiting for. All eyes M'ere 
turned in the direction of the sally-port. A few moments of eager expectation, 
and colours were seen fluttering gaily in the air, arms glistened brightly in the 
sun, column after column poured on to the plain. The troops halted and 
formed ; the word ol command rung through the line, there was a general clash 
of muskets as arms were presented ; and the commander-in-chief, attended by 
Colonel Bulder and numerous officers, cantered to the front. The military bands 
struck up altogether; the horses stood upon two legs each, cantered backwards, 
an 1 whisked their tails about in all directions : the dogs barked, the mob 


.30 


The Pickwick Club. 


screamedj the troops recovered, and nothing was to be seen on either side, as fai 
as the eye could reach, but a long perspective of red coats and white trousers, 
fixed and motionless. 

Mr. Pickwick had been so fully occupied in falling about, and disentangling 
himself, miraculously, from between the legs of horses, that he had not enjoyed 
sufficient leisure to obsei-ve the scene before him, until it assumed the appear- 
ance we have just described. When he was at last enabled to stand fiimly on his 
legs, his gratification and delight were unbounded. 

“ Can anything be finer or more delightful he inquired of Mr. Winkle. 

“ Nothing,” replied that gentleman, who had had a short man standing on each 
af his feet for the quarter of an hour immediately preceding. 

“It is indeed a noble and a brilliant sight,” said Mr. Snodgrass, in whose 
bosom a blaze of poetry was rapidly bursting forth, “to see the gallant defenders 
of their country drawn up in brilliant array before its peaceful citizens ; their faces 
beaming — not with warlike ferocity, but with civilised gentleness ; their eyes 
flashing — not with the rude fire of rapine or revenge, but with the soft light ol 
humanity and intelligence.” 

Mr. Pickwick fully entered into the spirit of this eulogium, but he could not 
exactly re-echo its terms ; for the soft light of intelligence burnt rather feebly in 
the eyes of the warriors, inasmuch as the command “ eyes front” had been given, 
and all the spectator saw before him was several thousand pair of optics, staring 
straight forward, wholly divested of any expression whatever. 

“ We are in a capital situation now,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. 
The crowd had gradually dispersed in their inmiediate vicinity, and they were 
nearly alone. 

“ Capital !” echoed both Mr. Snodgi-ass and M*. Winkle. 

“What are they doing now inquired Mr. Pickwick, adjusting his spectacles. 

“ I — I — rather think,” said Mr. Winkle, changing colour — “ 1 ratlier think 
they’re going to fire.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. 

“I — I — really think they are,” urged Mr. Snodgrass, somewhat alarmed. 

“ Impossible,” replied Mr. Pickwick. He had hardly uttered the word, when 
the whole half-dozen regiments levelled their muskets as if they had but one 
common object, and that object the Pickwickians, and burst forth with the most 
awful and tremendous discharge that ever shook the earth to its centre, or an 
elderly gentleman off his. 

It was in this tiying situation, exposed to a galling fire of blank cartridges, and 
harassed by the operations of the military, a fresh body of whom had begun to 
fall in on the opposite side, that Mr. PickAvick displayed that perfect coolness 
and self-possession, which are the indispensable accompaniments of a great mind. 
He seized Mr. Winkle by the arm, and placing himself between that gentleman 
and Mr. Snodgrass, earnestly besought them to remember that beyond the possi- 
bility of being rendered deaf by the noise, there was no immediate danger to be 
aj)prehended from the firing. 

“ But — but — suppose some of the men should happen to have ball cartridges 
by mistake,” remonstrated Mr. Winkle, pallid at the supposition he was himseli 
conjuring up. “ 1 heard something whistle through the air just now— so sharp • 
close to my ear.” ^ ’ 

“We had better throw ourselves on our faces, hadn’t we ?” said Mr. Snod- 
grass. 

“No, no— it’s over now,” said Mr. Pickwick. His lip might quiver, and his 
cheek might blanch, but no expression of fear or concern escaped the lips of that 
immortal ma»' 


Mr. Pichwick between Two Fires. 


Mr. Pickyrick was right : the firing ceased ; but he had scanjely time to con- 
giatulate himself on the accuracy of his opinion, when a quick movement was 
visible in the line : the hoarse shout of the word of command ran along it, and 
before either of the party could form a guess at the meaning of this new manoeuvre, 
the whole of the half-dozen regiments, with fixed bayonets, charged at double 
quick time dowm upon the very spot on which Mr. Pickwick and his friends were 
stationed. 

Man is but mortal : and there is a point beyond which human courage cannot 
extend. Mr. Pick\vick gazed through his spectacles for an instant on the ad- 
vancing mass, and then fairly turned his back and — we will not say fled ; firstly, 
because it is an ignoble teim, and, secondly, because Mr. Pickwick’s figure was 
by no means adapted for that mode of retreat — he trotted away, at as quick a rate 
as his legs would convey him ; so quickly, indeed, that he did not perceive the 
awkwardness of his situation, to the full extent, until too late. 

The opposite troops, whose falling-in had perplexed Mr. Pickwick a few 
seconds before, were drawn up to repel the mimic attack of the sham besiegers 
of the citadel ; and the consequence was that Mr. Pickwick and his two com- 
panions found themselves suddenly inclosed between two lines of great length, 
the one advancing at a rapid pace, and the other firmly waiting the collision in 
hostile array. 

“ Hoi ! ” shouted the officers of the advancing line. 

“ Get out of the way,” cried the officers of the stationaiy one. 

“ Where are we to go to ?” screamed the agitated Pickwickians. 

“Hoi— hoi — hoi !” was the Only reply. There was a moment of intense be- 
wilderment, a heavy tramp of footsteps, a violent concussion, a smothered laugh ; 
the half-dozen regiments were half a thousand yards off, and the soles of Mr. 
Pickwick’s boots were elevated in air. 

Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle had each performed a compulsory somerset 
with remarkable agility, when the first object that met the eyes of the latter as he 
sat on the ground, staunching with a yellow silk handkerchief the stream of life 
which issued from his nose, was his venerated leader at some distance off, running 
alter his own hat, which was gamboling playfully aw'ay in perspective. 

There are very few moments in a man’s existence when he experiences so much 
ludicrous distress, or meets with so little charitable commiseration, as when he 
is in pursuit of his own hat. A vast deal of coolness, and a peculiar degree of 
judgment, are requisite in catching a hat. A man must not be precipitate, or he 
runs over it ; he must not rush into the opposite extreme, or he loses it altogether. 
The best way is, to keep gently up with the object of pursuit, to be wary and 
cautious, to watch your opportunity well, get gradually before it, then make a 
rapid dive, seize it by the crowm, and stick it firmly on your head : smilmg 
pleasantly all the time, as if you thought it as good a joke as anybody else. 

There was a fine gentle wind, and Mr. Pickwick’s hat rolled sportively before it. 
The wind puffed, and Mr. Pickwick puffed, and the hat rolled over and over as 
meirily as a lively porpoise in a strong tide ; and on it might have rolled, far 
beyond Mr. Pickwick’s reach, had not its course been providentially stopped, 
just as that gentleman was on the point of resigning it to its fate. 

Mr. Pickwick, we say, was completely exhausted, and about to give up the 
chase, when the hat was blown with some violence against the wheel of a carriage, 
which was drawn up in a line with half-a-dozen other vehicles on the spot to 
which his steps had been directed. Mr. Pickwick, perceiving his advantage, 
darted briskly forward, secured his property, planted it on his head, and paused 
to take breath. He had not been stationaiy half a minute, when he heard his 
own name eagerly pronounced by a voice, which he at once recognised as Mi. 


3a 


The Pickwick Club, 


Tupman’s, and, looking upwards, he beheld a sight which filled him with 
suiprise and pleasure. 

In an open barouche, the horses of which had been taken out, the better tc 
accommodate it to the crowded place, stood a stout old gentleman, in a blue coat 
and bright buttons, corduroy breeches and top boots, two young , ladies in scarfs 
and feathers, a young gentleman apparently enamoured of one of the young ladies 
in scarfs and feathers, a lady of doubtful age, probably the aunt of the aforesaid, 
and Mr. Tupman, as easy and unconcerned as if he had belonged to the family 
from the first moments of his infancy. Fastened up behind the barouche was a 
hamper of spacious dimensions — one of those hampers which always awakens 
in a contemplative mind associations connected with cold fowls, tongues, and 
bottles of wine — and on the box sat a fat and red-faced boy, in a state of som- 
nolency, whom no speculative observer could have regarded for an instant without 
setting down as the official dispenser of the contents of the before-mentioned 
hamper, when the proper time for their consumption should arrive. 

Mr. Pickwick had bestowed a hasty glance on these interesting objects, when 
he was again greeted by his faithful disciple. 

“ Pickwick — Pickwick,” said Mr. Tupman : “ come up here. Make haste.” 

“Come along, sir. Pray, come up,” said the stout gentleman. “Joe! — damn 
that boy, he’s gone to sleep again. — Joe, let down the steps.” The fat boy rolled 
slowly off the box, let down the steps, and held the carriage door invitingly open. 
Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle came up at the moment. 

“Room for you all, gentlemen,” said the stout man. “Two inside, and one 
out. Joe, make room for one of these gentlemen on the box. Now, sir, come 
along;” and the stout gentleman extended his arm, and pulled first Mr. Pickwick, 
and then Mr. Snodgrass, into the barouche by main force. Mr. Winlde mounted 
to the box, the fat boy waddled to the same perch, and fell fast asleep instantly. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said the stout man, “very glad to see you. Know you 
veiy well, gentlemen, though you mayn’t remember me. I spent some ev’nins 
at your club last winter — picked up my friend Mr. Tupman here this morning, 
and very glad I was to see him. Well, sir, and how are you ? You do look 
uncommon well, to be sure.” 

Mr Pickwick acknowledged the compliment, and cordially shook hands with 
the stout gentleman in the top boots. 

“Well, and how are you, sir.? ’’said the stout gentleman, addressing Mr. 
Snodgrass with paternal anxiety. “ Charming, eh .? Well, that’s right — that’s 
right. And how are you, sir (to MJ. Winkle) ? Well, I am glad to hear you 
say you are well ; very glad I am, to be sure. My daughters, gentlemen — my 
gals these are ; and that’s my sister. Miss Rachael Wardle. She’s a Miss, she 
is ; and yet she an’t a Miss — eh, sir, eh .? ” And the stout gentleman play- 
fully inserted his elbow between the ribs of Mr. Pickwick, and laughed veiy 
heartily. 

“ Lor, brother ? ” said Miss Wardle, with a deprecating smile. 

“True, true,” said the stout gentleman ; “no one can deny it. Gentlemen, I 
beg your pardon ; this is my friend Mr. Trundle. And now you all know each 
other, let’s be comfortable and happy, and see what’s going forward ; that’s what 
I say.” So the stout gentleman put on his spectacles, and Mr. Pickwick pulled 
out his glass, and everybody stood up in the carriage, and looked over somebody 
clse’s shoulder at the evolutions of the military. 

Astounding evolutions they were, one rank firing over the heads of another 
rank, and then running away ; and then the other rank firing over the h ;ads oi 
another rank, and running away in their turn; and then forming squares, with 
officers in the centre ; and then descending the trench on one side with scaling 


The Fat Boy waits at Dinner, 


3J 


ladders, and ascending it on the other again by the same means ; and knocking down 
barricades of baskets, and behaving in the most gallant manner possible. Then 
there was such a ramming down of the contents of enormous guns on the battery, 
with instruments like magnified mops ; such a preparation before they were let 
off, and such an awful noise when they did go, that the air resounded with the 
screams of ladies. The young Miss Wardles were so frightened, that Mr. Trundle 
was actually obliged to hold one of them up in the caniage, while Mr. Snodgiass 
supported the other, and Mr. Wardle’s sister suffered under such a dreadful state of 
nervous alarm, that Mr. Tupman found it indispensably necessary to put his arm 
round her waist, to keep her up at all. Everybody was excited, except the fat 
boy, and he slept as soundly as if the roaring of cannon were his ordinary lullaby. 

“ Joe, Joe ! ” said the stout gentleman, when the citadel was taken, and the 
besiegers and besieged sat down to dinner. “ Damn that boy, he’s gone to sleep 
again. Be good enough to pinch him, sir — in the leg, if you please ; nothing 
else wakes him — tharrk you. Undo the hamper, Joe.” 

The fat boy, who had been effectually roused by the compression of a portion 
of his leg between the finger and thumb of Mr. Winkle, rolled off the box once 
again, and proceeded to unpack the hamper, with more expedition than could 
have been expected from his previous inactivity. 

“ Now, we must sit close,” said the stout gentleman. After a gi'eat many 
jokes about squeezing the ladies’ sleeves, and a vast quantity of blushing at 
sundry jocose proposals, that the ladies should sit in the gentlemen’s laps, the 
whole party were stowed down in the barouche ; and the stout gentleman pro- 
ceeded to hand the things from the fat boy (who had mounted up behind for the 
purpose) into the carnage. 

“Now, Joe, knives and forks.” The knives and forks were handed in, and 
the ladies and gentlemen inside, and Mr. Winkle on the box, were each furnished 
with those useful instruments. 

“ Plates, Joe, plates.” A similar process employed in the distribution of the 
crockery. 

“Now, Joe, the fowls. Damn that boy; he’s gone to sleep again. Joe! 
Joe!” (Sundiy taps on the head with a stick, and the fat boy, with some 
difficulty, roused from his lethargy). “ Come, hand in the eatables.” 

There was something in the sound of the last word which roused the unctuous 
boy. He jumped up : and the leaden eyes, which twinkled behind his moun- 
tainous cheeks, leered horribly upon the food as he unpacked it from the basket. 

“Now make haste,” said Mr. Wardle ; for the fat boy was hanging fondly 
over a capon, which he seemed wholly unable to part with. The boy sighed 
deeply, and, bestowing an ardent gaze upon its plumpness, unwillingly consigned 
it to his master. 

“ That’s right— look sharp. Now the tongue — now the pigeon-pie. Take 
care of that veal and ham — mind the lobsters — take the salad out of the cloth — 
give me the dressing.” Such were the hurried orders which issued from the lips 
of Mr. Wardle, as he handed in the different articles described, and placed dishes 
in everybody’s hands, and on everybody’s knees, in endless number. 

“ Now, an’t this capital ? ” inquired that jolly personage, when the work of 
destruction had commenced. 

“ Capital ! ” said Mr. Winkle, who was carving a fowl on the box. 

“ Glass of wine } ” 

“ With the greatest pleasure.” 

“ You’d better have a bottle to yourself, up there, hadn’t ycu ? ” 

“ You’re very good.” 

••Joe!” 


D 


34 


The Pickwick Club, 


** Yes, sir.” (He wasn’t asleep this time, having just succeeded in abstracting 
a veal patty.) 

“ Bottle of wine to the gentleman on the box. Glad to see you, sir.” 

“Thankee.” Mr. Winkle emptied his glass, and placed the bottle on thk 
coach-box, by his side. 

“ Will you permit me to havM the pleasure, sir ? ” said Mr. Trundle to Mr. 
Winkle. 

“With great pleasure,” replied Mr. Winkle to Mr. Trundle : and then the two 
gentlemen took wine, after which they took a glass of wine round, ladies and all. 

“How dear Emily is flirting with the strange gentleman,” whispered the 
spinster aunt, with true spinster-aunt-like envy, to her brother Mr. Wardle. 

“Oh! I don’t know,” said the jolly old gentleman; “all very natural, I dare 
say — nothing unusual. Mr. Pickwick, some wine, sir ? ” Mr. Pickwick, who 
had been deeply investigating the interior of the pigeon-pie, readily assented. 

“Emily, my dear,” said the spinster aunt, with a patronising air, “don’t talk 
so loud, love.” 

“ Lor, aunt ! ” 

“ Aunt and die little old gentleman want to have it all to themselves, I think,” 
whispered Miss Isabella Wardle to her sister Emily. The young ladies laughed 
very heartily, and the old one tried to look amiable, but couldn’t manage it. 

“ Young girls have such spirits,” said Miss Wardle to Mr. Tupman, Avith an air 
of gentle commiseration, as if animal spirits were contraband, and their possession 
without a permit, a high crime and misdemeanour. 

“ Oh, they have,” replied Mr. Tupman, not exactly making the sort of reply 
that was expected from him. “ It’s quite delightful.” 

“ Hem I ” said Miss Wardle, rather dubiously. 

“ Will you pennit me,” said Mr. Tupman, in his blandest manner, touching the 
enchanting Rachael’s wrist with one hand, and gently elevating the bottle with 
the other. “ Will you pennit me } ” 

“ Oh, sir ! ” Mr. Tupman looked most impressive ; and Rachael expressed her 
fear that more guns were going oif, in which case, 'of comrse, she would have 
required support again. 

“ Do you think my dear nieces pretty ? ” whispered their affectionate aunt to 
Mr. Tupman. 

“ I should, if their aunt wasn’t here,” replied the ready Pickwickian, with a 
passionate glance. 

“ Oh, you naughty man — but really, if their complexions were a little better, 
don’t you think they would be nice-looking girls — by candle-light ? ” 

“ Yes ; I think they would ; ” said Mr. Tupman, with an air of indifference. 

“ Oh, you quiz — I know what you were going to say.” 

“ What } ” inquired Mr. Tupman, who had not precisely made up his mind to 
say anything at all. 

“ You were going to say, that Isabel stoops — I know you were — you men are such 
observers. Well, so she does ; it can’t be denied ; and, certainly, if there is one 
thing more than another that makes a girl look ugly, it is stooping. I often tell her, 
that when she gets a little older, she’ll be quite frightful. Well, you arez quiz I ” 

Mr. Tupman had no objection to earning the reputation at so cheap a rate ; so 
he looked veiy knowing, and smiled mysteriously. 

“What a sarcastic smile,” said the admiring Rachael: “I declare I’m quite 
afraid of you.” ^ 

“ Afraid of me ! ” 

“ Oh, you can’t disguise anything from me — I know what that smile means, 
very well.” 


The Pat Boy is prized as a Natural Curiosity, 3 j 

** What ? ” said Mr. Tupman, who had not the slightest notion himself. 

“You mean,” said the amiable aunt, sinking her voice still lower — “You mean, 
that you don’t think Isabella’s stooping is as bad as Emily’s boldness. Well, she 
is bold ! You cannot think how wretched it makes me sometimes — I’m sure I cry 
about it for hours together — my dear brother is so good, and so unsuspicious, that 
he never sees it ; if he did, I’m quite certain it would break his heart. I wish 
I could think it was only manner — I hope it may be — ” (here the affectionate 
lolative heaved a deep sigh, and shook her head despondingly.) 

“ I’m sure aunt’s talking about us,” whispered Miss Emily Wardle to her sister 
— “ I’m quite certain of it — she looks so malicious.” 

“ Is she } ” replied Isabella — “ Hem ! aunt, dear ! ” 

“ Yes, my dear love ! ” 

“ I’m so afraid you’ll catch cold, aunt — ^have a silk handkerchief to tie round 
your dear old head —you really should take care of yourself — consider your age ! ” 

However well deseiwed this piece of retaliation might have been, it Avas a? 
vindictive a one as could well have been resorted to. There is no guessing ir 
what form of reply the aunt’s indignation would have vented itself, had nol 
Mr. Wardle unconsciously changed the subject, by calling emphatically for Joe. 

“ Damn that boy,” said the old gentleman, “ he’s gone to sleep again.” 

“Very extraordinary boy, that,” said Mr. Pickwick, “does he always sleep in 
this way.? ” 

“ Sleep ! ” said the old gentleman, “ he’s always asleep. Goes on errands fast 
asleep, and snores as he waits at table.” 

“ How very odd ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Ah! odd indeed,” returned the old gentleman; “I’m proud of that boy— 
wouldn’t part with him on any account — be’s a natural curiosity I Here, Joe — 
Joe — take these things away, and open another bottle — d’ye hear .? ” 

The fat boy rose, opened his eyes, swallowed the huge piece of pie he had been 
in the act of masticating when he last fell asleep, and slowly obeyed his master’s 
orders — gloating languidly over the remains of the feast, as he removed the plates, 
and deposited them in the hamper. The afresh bottle was produced, and speedily 
emptied ; the hamper was made fast in its old place — the fat boy once more 
mounted the box — the spectacles and pocket-glass were again adjusted — and the 
evolutions of the military recommenced. There was a great fizzing and banging 
of guns, and starting of ladies — and then a mine was sprung, to the gratification 
of everybody — and when the mine had gone off, the military and the company 
followed its example, and went off too. 

“ Now, mind,” said the old gentleman, as he shook hands with Mr. Pickwick 
at the conclusion of a conversation which had been carried on at intervals, during 
the conclusion of the proceedings — “ we shall see you all to-morrow.” 

“ Most certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“You have got the address.” 

“ Manor Farm, Dingley Dell,” said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his pocket-book. 

“ That’s it,” said the old gentleman. “ I don’t let you off, mind, under a week ; 
and undertake that you shall see everything Avorth seeing. If you’ve come down 
for a country life, come to me, and I’ll give you plenty of it. Joe — damn that 
boy, he’s gone to sleep again — Joe, help Tom put in the horses.” 

The horses Avere put in — the driver mounted — the fat boy clambered up by his 
side — farewells were exchanged — and the carriage rattled off. As the PickAvickians 
turned round to take a last glimpse of it, the setting sun cast a rich glow on the 
faces of their entertainers, and fell upon the form of the fat boy. His head was 
sunk upon his bosom : and he slumbered again. 


0 


The Pickwick Chh. 


CHAPTER V. 

A SHORT ONE. SHOWING, AMONG OTHER MATTERS, HOW MR. PICKWICK UNDER* 

TOOK TO DRIVE, AND MR. WINKLE TO RIDE ; AND HOW THEY BOTH DID IT. 

Bright and pleasant was the sky, balmy the air, and beautiful the appearance ol 
eveiy object around, as Mr. Pickwick lent over the balustrades of Rochester 
Bridge, contemplating nature, and waiting for breakfast. The scene was indeed 
one which might well have charmed a far less reflective mind, than that to which 
it was presented. 

On the left of the spectator lay the ruined wall, broken in many places, and in 
some, overhanging the narrow beach below in rude and heavy masses. Huge 
knots of sea-weed hung upon the jagged and pointed stones, trembling in every 
breath of wind ; and the green ivy clung mournfully round the dark arrd ruined 
battlements. Behind it rose the ancient castle, its towers roofless, and its massive 
walls crumbling away, but telling us proudly of its own might and strength, as 
when, seven hundr ed years ago, it rang with the clash of arms, or resounded with 
the noise of feasting and 'revelry. On either side, the banks of the Medway, 
covered with coin-lields and pastures, with here and there a windmill, or a distant 
church, stretched away as far as the eye could see, presenting a rich and varied 
landscape, rendered more beautiful by the changing shadows which passed swiftly 
across it, as the thin and half-formed clouds skimmed away in the light of the 
morning sun. The river, reflecting the clear blue of the sky, glistened and 
sparkled as it flowed noiselessly on ; and the oars of the fishermen dipped into the 
water with a clear and liquid sound, as the heavy but picturesque boats glided 
slowly down the stream, 

Mr. Pickwick was roused from the agreeable reverie into which he had been led 
by the objects before him, by. a deep sigh, and a touch on his shoulder. He turned 
round : and the dismal man was at his side. 

“ Contemplating the scene } ” inquired the dismal man. 

I was,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“And congratulating yomself on being up so soon?” Mr. Pickwick nodded 
assent. 

“ Ah ! people need to rise early, to see the sun in all his splendour, for his 
brightness seldom lasts the day through. The morning of day and the morning oi 
life are but too much alike.” 

“ You speak truly, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ How common the saying,” continued the dismal man, ** ‘ The morning’s too 
fine to last.’ How well might it be applied to our every-day existence. God ! 
what would I forfeit to have the days of my childhood restored, or to be able to 
forget them for ever ! ” 

“ You have seen much trouble, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, compassionately. 

“ I have,” said the dismal man, hurriedly ; “ I have. More than those who see 
me now would believe possible.” He paused for an instant, and then said, 
abruptly— 

“ Did it ever strike you, on such a morning as this, that drowning would be 
happiness and peace ? ” 

“ God bless me, ®o !” replied Mr. Pickwick, edging a little from the balustrade, 
as the possibility of the dismal man’s tipping him over, by way of experiment, 
Dccuired to him rather forcibly. 

“ 1 have thought so, often,” said the dismal man, without noticing the action. 

1 he calm, cool water seems to me to murmur an invitation to repose and rest 


3 ? 


rhe Order of Travelling is arranged, 

A bound, a splash, a brief struggle * there is an eddy for an instant, it giadually 
subsides into a gentle ripple ; the waters have closed above your head, and the 
world has closed upon your miseries and misfortunes for ever.” The sunken eye 
of the dismal man flashed brightly as he spoke, but the momentary excitement 
quickly subsided ; and he turned calmly away, as he said — 

“ There — enough of that. I wish to see you on another subject. You invited 
me to read that paper, the night before last, and listened attentively while I did so.” 

“ I did,” replied Mr. Pickwick ; “ and I certainly thought ” 

“ I asked for no opinion,” said the dismal man, interrupting him, “and I want 
none. You are travelling for amusement and instruction. Suppose I forwarded 
you a curious manuscript — observe, not curious because wild or improbable, but 
curious as a leaf from the romance of real life. Would you communicate it to the 
club, of which you have spoken so frequently } ” 

“ Certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “ if you wished it ; and it would be entered 
on their transactions.” 

“You shall have it,” replied the dismal man. “Your address;” and, Mr. 
Pickwick having communicated their probable route, the dismal man carefully 
noted it down in a greasy pocket-book, and, resisting Mr. Pickwick’s pressing 
invitation to breakfast, left that gentleman at his inn, and walked slowly away. 

Mr. Pickwick found that his three companions had risen, and were waiting his 
arrival to commence breakfast, which was ready laid in tempting display. * They 
sat down to the meal ; and broiled ham, eggs, tea, coffee, and sundries, began to 
disappear with a rapidity which at once bore testimony to the excellence of the 
fare, and the appetites of its consumers. 

“ Now, about Manor Fann,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ How shall we go } ” 

“ We had better consult the waiter, perhaps,” said Mr. Tupman, and the waiter 
was summoned accordingly. 

“ Dingley Dell, gentlemen — fifteen miles, gentlemen — cross road — post-chaise, 
sir ” 

“ Post-chaise won’t hold more than two,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ True, sir — beg your pardon, sir. — Very nice four-wheeled chaise, sir — seat for 
two behind — one in front for the gentleman that drives — oh ! beg your pardon, sir 
— that’ll only hold three.” 

“ What’s to be done } ” said Mr. Snodgjass. 

“ Perhaps one of the gentlemen would like to ride, sir suggested the waiter, 
looking towards Mr. Winkle ; “ very good saddle horses, sir— any of Mr. Wardle’s 
men coming to Rochester bring ’em back, sir.” 

“ The very thing,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Winkle, will you go on horseback .?” 

Mr. Winkle did entertain considerable misgivings in the veiy lowest recesses 
of his own heart, relative to his equestrian skill ; but, as he would not have 
them even suspected on any account, he at once replied with great hardihood, 
“ Certainly. I should enjoy it, of all things.” 

Mr. Winkle had rushed upon his fate ; there was no resource. “ Let them be at 
the door by eleven,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Very well, sir,” replied the waiter. 

The waiter retired ; the breakfast concluded ; and the travellers ascended to their 
respective bed-rooms, to prepare a change of clothing, to take with them on their 
approaching expedition. 

Mr. Pickwick had made his preliminary arrangements, and was looking over the 
coffee-room blinds at the passengers in the street, when the waiter entered, and 
announced that the chaise was ready— an announcement which the vehicle itselt 
confirmed, by forthwith appearing before the coffee-ioom blinds aforesaid. 

It was a curious little green box on four wheels, with a low place like a wine-bni 


38 


The Pickwick Club, 


for two behind, and an elevated perch for one in front, drawn by an immense 
brown horse, displaying gi eat symmetiy of bone. An hostler stood near, holding 
by the bridle another immen^^e ho’se— apparently a near relative of the animal in 
the chaise — ready saddled foi Mr. Winkle. 

“ Bless my soul !” said Mr. Pickwick, as they stood upon the pavement while 
the coats were being put in. “ Bless my soul ! who’s to drive ? I never thought 
of that.” 

“ Oh! you, of course,” said Mr. Tupman, 

“ Of course,” said Mr Snodgrass. 

“ I! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Not the slightest fear, sir,” intei-posed the hostler. Warrant him quiet, sir ; 
a hinfant in arms might drive him.” 

“ He don’t shy, does he ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Shy, sir } — He wouldn’t shy if he was to meet a vaggin-load of monkeys with 
then tails burnt off.” 

The last recommendation was indisputable. Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass 
got into the bin Mr. Pickwick ascended to his perch, and deposited his feet on a 
floor-clothed shelf, erected beneath it for that purpose. 

“Now, shiny Villiam,” said the hostler to the deputy hostler, “give thj 
gen’lm’n the ribbins.” “ Shiny Villiam ” — so called, probably, from his sleek 
hair and oily countenance — placed the reins in Mr. Pickwick’s left hand ; and the 
upper hostler thrust a whip into his right. 

“Wo — o!” cried Mr. Pickwick, as the tall quadruped evinced a decided in- 
clination to back into the cofi'ee-room window. 

“ Wo — o !” echoed Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass, from the bin. 

“ Only his playfulness, gen’lm’n,” said the head hostler encouragingly ; “jist 
kitch hold on him, Villiam.” The deputy restrained the animal’s impetuosity, 
and the principal ran to assist Mr. Winlde in mounting. 

“ T’other side, sir, if you please.” 

“ Blowed if the gen’lm’n worn’t a gettin’ up on the wrong side,” whispered a 
grinning post-boy to the inexpressibly gratified waiter. 

Mr. Winkle, thus instructed, climbed into his saddle, with about as much diffi- 
culty as he would have experienced in getting up the side of a first-rate man-of-war. 

“ All right?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, with an inward presentiment that it was 
all wrong. 

“ All right,” replied Mr. Winkle faintly. 

“ Let ’em go,” cried the hostler, — “Hold him in, sir,” and away went the 
chaise, and the saddle-horse, with Mr. Pickwick on the box of the one, and 
Mr. Winkle on the back of tire other, to the delight and gratification of the whole 
inn yard. 

“ What makes him go sideways ?” said Mr. Snodgrass in the bin, to Mr. Winkle 
in the saddle. 

“ I can’t imagine,” replied Mr. Winkle. His horse was drifting up the street 
in the most mysterious manner — side first, with his head towards one side of the 
W'ay, and his tail towards the other. 

Mr. Pickwick had no leisure to obsei-ve either this or any other particular, the 
whole of his faculties being concentrated in the management of the animal 
attached to the chaise, who displayed various peculiarities, highly interesting to a 
bv-s.ander, but by no means equally amusing to any one seated behind him. 
Besides constantly jerking his head up, in a very unpleasant and uncomfor table 
nranrrer, and tugging at the reins to an extent which rendered it a matter of great 
difficulty for Mr. Pickwick to hoi 1 them, he had a singular propensity for darting 
Buddenly e'serv now and then to tnc side of the road, then stopping short, and 


The Order of Travelling is disarranged, 39 

then rushing forward for some minutes, at a speed wnich it was wholly impossible 
to control. 

“ What can he mean by this said Mr. Snodgrass, when the horse had 
executed this manoeuvre for the twentieth time. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Mr. Tupman; “it looks very like shying, don’t it?” 
Mr. Snodgj-ass was about to reply, when he was interrupted by a shout from Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“ Woo ! ” said that gentleman ; “ I have dropped my whip.” 

“ Winkle,” said Mr. Snodgiass, as the equestrian came trotting up on the tall 
horse, with his hat over his ears, and shaking all over, as if he would shake to 
pieces, with the violence of the exercise, “pick up the whip, there’s a good 
fellow.” Mr. Winkle pulled at the bridle of the tall horse till he was black in 
the face ; and having at length succeeded in stopping him, dismounted, handed 
the whip to Mr. Pic&vdck, and grasping the reins, prepared to remount. 

Now whether the tall horse, in the natural playfulness of his disposition, was 
desirous of having a little innocent recreation with Mr. Winkle, or whether it 
occurred to him that he could perform the journey as much to his own satisfaction 
without a rider as with one, are points upon which, of course, we can arrive at no 
definite and distinct conclusion. By whatever motives the animal was actuated, 
certain it is that Mr. Winkle had no sooner touched the reins, than he slipped 
them over his head, and darted backwards to their full length. 

“ Poor fellow,” said Mr. Winkle, soothingly, — “ poor fellow — good old horse.” 
The “ poor fellow*’ was proof against flattery : the more Mr. Winkle tried to get 
nearer him, the more he sidled away ; and, notwithstanding all kinds of coaxing 
and wheedling, there were Mr. Winkle and the horse going round and round each 
other for ten minutes, at the end of which time each was at precisely the same 
distance from the other as when they first commenced — an unsatisfactory sort of 
thing under any circumstances, but particularly so in a lonely road, where no 
assistance can be procured. 

“What am I to do ?” shouted Mr. Winkle, after the dodging had been pro- 
longed for a considerable time. “ What am I to do ? I can’t get on him.” 

“ You had better lead him till we come to a turnpike,” replied Mr. Pickwick 
from the chaise. 

“ But he won’t come ! ” roared Mr. Winkle. “ Do come, and hold him.” 

Mr. Pickwick was the very personation of kindness and humanity : he threw the , 
reins on the horse’s back, and having descended from hrs seat, carefully drew the 
chaise into the hedge, lest anything should come along the road, and stepped back 
to the assistance of his distressed companion, leaving Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snod- 
grass in the vehicle. 

The horse no sooner beheld Mr. Pickwick advancing towards him with the 
chaise whip in his hand, than he exchanged the rotatory motion in which he had 
previously indulged, for a retrograde movement of so very determined a character, 
that it at once drew Mr. Winkle, who was still at the end of the bridle, at a rather 
quicker rate than fast walking, in the direction from which they had just come. 
Mr. Pickwick ran to his assistance, but the faster Mr. Pickwick ran forward, the 
faster the horse ran backward. There was a great scraping of feet, and kicking 
up of the dust ; and at last Mr. Winkle, his aims being nearly pulled out of their 
sockets, fairly let go his hold. The horse paused, stared, shook his head, turned 
round, and quietly trotted home to Rochester, leaving Mr. Winkle and Mr. Pick- 
''dek gazing on each other wdth countenances of blank dismay. A rattling noise 
at a little distance attracted their attention. They looked up. 

“ Bless my soul!” exclaimed the agonized Mr. Pickwick, “there’s the othef 
h<:rse running awi v ! ” 


40 


The Pickwick Club. 


It was but tdo true. The animal was startled by the noise, and the reins were 
on his back. The result may be guessed. He tore off with the four-wheeled 
chaise behind him, and Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass in the four-wheeled 
chaise. The heat was a short one. Mr. Tupman threw himself into the hedge, 
Mr. Snodgrass followed his example, the horse dashed the four-wheeled chaise 
against a wooden bridge, separated the wheels from the body, and the bin from 
the perch ; and finally stood stock still to gaze upon the ruin he had made. 

The first care of the two unspilt friends was to extricate their unfortunate com- 
panions from their bed of quickset — a process which gave them the unspeakable 
satisfaction of discovering that they had sustained no injury, beyond sundry rents 
in their garments, and various lacerations from the brambles. The next tiling to 
be done was, to unharness the "horse. This complicated process having been 
effected, the party walked slowly forward, leading the horse among them, and 
abandoning the chaise to its fate. 

An hour’s walking brought the travellers to a little road-side public-house, with 
two elm trees, a horse trough, and a sign-post, in front ; one or two deformed 
hay-ricks behind, a kitchen garden at the side, and rotten sheds and mouldering 
out-houses jumbled in strange confusion all about it. A red-headed man was 
working in the garden ; and to him Mr. Pickwick called lustily — “ Hallo there !” 

The red-headed man raised his body, shaded his eyes with his hand, and stared 
long and coolly, at Mr. Pickwick and his companions. 

Hallo there I ” repeated Mr. Pickwick. 

** Hallo ! ” was the red-headed man’s reply. 

“ How far is it to Dingley Dell ?” 

“ Better er seven mile.” 

“ Is it a good road 

“ No, t’ant.” Having uttered this brief reply, and apparently satisfied himseM 
with another scrutiny, the red-headed man resumed his work. 

“We want to put this horse up here,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ I suppose we can, 
can’t we 

“Want to put that ere horse up, do ee repeated the red-headed man, lean- 
ing on his spade. 

“ Of course,” replied Mr. Pickwick, who had by this time advanced, horse in 
hand, to the garden rails. 

“Missus ” — roared the man with the red head, emerging from the garden, and 
looking very hard at the horee — “ Missus ! ” 

A tall bony woman — straight all the way down — in a coarse blue pelisse, with 
the waist an inch or two below her ann-pits, responded to the call. 

“ Can we put this horse up here, my good woman ?” said Mr. Tupman, advanc* 
ing, and speaking in his most seductive tones. The woman looked veiy hard at 
the whole party ; and the red-headed man whispered something in her ear, 

“No,” replied the woman, after a little consideration, “I’m afeerd on it.” 

“Afraid {’’exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, “what’s the woman afraid of.?” 

“ It got us in trouble last time,” said the woman, turning into the house: “I 
woant have nothin’ to say to ’un.” 

“Most extraordinary thing I ever met with in my life,” said the astonished Mr. 
PickAvick. 

“ I_I_really believe,” whispered Mr. Winkle, as his friends gathered round 
him, “ that they think we have come by this horse in some dishonest manner.” 

“ What!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in a storm of indignation. Mr. Winkle 
modestly repeated his suggestion. 

“ Hallo, you fellow!” said the angiy Mr. Pickwick, “ do you think we stole 
this horse?” 


Arrival at Manor Farm. 


4 - 


“ I’m sure ye did,” replied the red-headed man, with a giin which agitated his 
countenance from one auricular organ to the other. Saying which, he turned into 
the house, and banged the door after him. 

“It’s like a dream,” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, “ a hideous dream. The idea 
of a man’s walking about, all day, with a dreadful horse that he can’t get rid of!” 
The depressed Pickwickians turned moodily away, with the tall quadruped, for 
which they all felt the most unmitigated disgust, following slowdy at their heels. 

It w'as late in the afternoon when the four friends and their four-footed companion 
turned into the lane leading to Manor Farm : and even when they were so near their 
place of destination, the pleasure they would have otherwise have experienced 
was materially damped as they reflected on the singularity of their appearance, 
and the absurdity of their situation. Torn clothes, lacerated faces, dusty shoes, 
exhausted looks, and, above all, the horse. Oh, how Mr. Pickwick cursed that 
horse ; he had eyed the noble animal from time to time with looks expressive of 
hatred and revenge ; more than once he had calculated the probable amount of 
the expense he would incur by cutting his throat ; and now the temptation to 
destroy him, or to cast him loose upon the world, rushed upon his mind with ten- 
fold force. He was roused from a meditation on these dire imaginings, by the 
sudden appearance of two figures at a turn of the lane. It was Mr. Wardle, and 
his faithful attendant, the fat boy. 

“ Why, where have you been } ” said the hospitable old gentleman ; “ I’ve been 
waiting for you all day. Well, you do look tired. What ! Scratches ! Not 
hurt, I hope — eh ? Well, I am glad to hear that — very. So you’ve been spilt, 
eh } Never mind. Common accident in these parts. Joe — he’s asleep again ! — 
Joe, take that horse from the gentleman, and lead it into the stable.” 

The fat boy sauntered heavily behind them with the animal ; and the old gentle- 
man, condoling with his guests in homely phrase on so much of the day’s adven- 
tures as they thought proper to communicate, led the way to the kitchen. 

“ We’ll have you put to rights here,” said the old gentleman, “ and then I’ll 
introduce you to the people in the parlour. Emma, bring out the cheiry brandy ; 
now, Jane, a needle and thread here; towels and water, Mary. Come, girls, 
bustle about.” 

Three or four buxom girls speedily dispersed in search of the different articles 
in requisition, while a couple of large-headed, circular- visaged males rose from 
their seats in the chimney-comer (for although it was a May evening, their at- 
tachment to the wood fire appeared as cordial as if it were Christmas), and dived 
into some obscure recesses, from which they speedily produced a bottle of blacking, 
and some half-dozen brushes. 

“ Bustle ! ” said the old gentleman again, but the admonition was quite un- 
necessary, for one of the girls poured out the cherry brandy, and another brought 
in the towels, and one of the men suddenly seizing Mr. Pickwick by the leg, at 
imminent hazard of throwing him off his balance, bmshed away at his boot, till 
his corns were red-hot ; while the other shampoo’d Mr. Winkle with a heavy 
clothes-brush, indulging, during the operation, in that hissing sound which 
hostlers are wont to produce when engaged in rubbing down a horse. 

Mr. Snodgrass, having concluded his ablutions, took a survey of the room, 
while standing with his back to the fire, sipping his cherry brandy with heartfelt 
satisfaction. He describes it as a large apartment, with a red brick floor and a 
capacious chimney ; the ceiling garnished with hams, sides of bacon, and ropes 
of onions. The w^alls were decorated with several hunting-whips, two or three 
bridles, a saddle and an old rusty blunderbuss, with an inscription below it, in- 
timating that it was “ Loaded ” — as it had been, on the same authority, for half 
a century' at least. An old eight-day clock, of solemn and sedate demeanour, 


The Pickwick Cliil\ 


ticked gravely in one comer ; and a silver watch, of equal antiquity, dangled from 
one of the many hooks which ornamented the dresser. 

“Ready?” said the old gentleman inquiringly, when his guests had been 
washed, mended, brushed, and brandied. 

“ Quite,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Come along, then,” and the party having traversed several dark passages, and 
being joined by Mr. Tupman, who had lingered behind to snatch a kiss from 
Emma, for which he had been duly rewarded with sundry pushings and scratchings, 
arrived at the parlour door. 

“ Welcome,” said their hospitable host, throwing it open and stepping fomard 
‘o announce them, “ Welcome, gentlemen, to Manor Farm.” 


CHAPTER VI. 

AN OLD-FASHIONED CARD-PARTY. THE CLERGYMAN’S VERSES. THE STORY 
OF THE convict’s RETURN. 

Several guests who were assembled in the old parlour rose to greet Mr. Pick- 
wick and his friends upon their entrance ; and during the performance of the 
ceremony of introduction, with all due formalities, Mr. Pickwick had leisure to 
observe the appearance, and speculate upon the characters and pursuits, of the 
persons by whom he was surrounded — a habit in which he in common with many 
other great men delighted to indulge. 

A very old lady, in a lofty cap and faded silk gOAvn — no less a personage than 
Mr. Wardle’s mother — occupied the post of honour on the light-hand corner of 
the chimney-piece ; and various certificates of her having been brought up in the 
way she should go when young, and of her not having departed from it when old, 
ornamented the walls, in the form of samplers of ancient date, worsted landscapes 
of equal antiquity, and crimson silk tea-kettle holders of a more modern period. 
The aunt, the two young ladies, and Mr. Wardle, each vying with the other in 
paying zealous and unremitting attentions to die old lady, crowded round her easy- 
chair, one holding her ear-trumpet, anothe- an orange, and a third a smelling- 
bottle, while a fourth was busily engaged in patting and punching the pillows 
which were arranged for her support. On the opposite side sat a bald-headed 
old gentleman, with a good-humoured benevolent face — the clergj^man of Dingley 
Dell ; and next him sat his wife, a stout blooming old lady, who looked as if she 
were well skilled, not only in the art and mysteiy of manufacturing home-made 
cordials greatly to other people’s satisfaction, but of tasting them occasionally 
very much to her owm. A little hard-headed, Ripstone-pippin-faced man, was 
conversing with a fat old gentleman in one corner ; and two or three more old 
gentlemen, and two or three more old ladies, sat bolt upright and motionless on 
their chairs, staring very hard at Mr. Pickwick and his fellow-voyagers. 

“ Mr. Pickwick, mother,” said Mr. Wardle, at the very top of his voice. 

“ Ah ! ” said the old lady, shaking her head ; “I can’t hear you.” 

“ Mr. Pickwick, grandma !” screamed both the young ladies together. 

“ Ah !” exclaimed the old lady. “Well; it don’t much matter. He don’t 
care for an old ’ooman like me, I dare say.” 

“ I assure you, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, grasping the old lady’s hand, and 
Sjierking so loud that the exertion imparted a crimson hue to his benevolent coun- 


An Alarming Old Lady. 


43 


lenano;, “ I assure you, ma’am, that nothing delights me more than to see a 
iady of your time of life beading so fine a family, and looking so young and well.” 

“ Ah !” said the old lady, after a short pause ; “ It’s all very fine, I dare say; 
but I can’t hear him.” 

“ Grandma’s rather put out now,” said Miss Isabella Wardle, in a low tone ; 
‘ but she’ll talk to you presently.” 

Mr. Pickwick nodded his readiness to humour the infirmities of age, and entered 
into a general conversation with the other members of the circle. 

“ Delightful situation this,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Delightful!” echoed Messrs. Snodgi-ass, Tupman, and Winkle. 

“ Well, I think it is,” said Mr. Wardle. 

“ There an’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent, sir,” said the hard-headed 
man with the pippin-face; “there an’t indeed, sir — I’m sure there an’t, sir.” 
The hard-headed man looked triumphantly round, as if he had been very much 
contradicted by somebody, but had got the better of him at last. 

“ There an’t a better spot o’ ground in all Kent,” said the hard-headed man 
again, after a pause. 

“ ’Cept Mullins’s Meadows,” observed the fat man solemnly. 

“ Mullins’s Meadows!” ejaculated the other, with profound contempt. 

“ Ah, Mullins’s Meadows,” repeated the fat man. 

“ Reg’lar good land that,” interposed another fat man. 

“ And so it is, sure-ly,” said a third fat man. 

“ Everybody knows that,” said the corpulent host. 

The hard-headed man looked dubiously round, but finding himself in a minority, 
assumed a compassionate air, and said no more. 

“What are they talking about.?” inquired the old lady of one of her giand- 
daughters, in a very audible voice ; for, like many deaf people, she never seemed 
to calculate on the possibility of other persons hearing what she said herself. 

“About the land, grandma.” 

“ What about the land .? — Nothing the matter, is there .?” 

“ No, no. Mr. Mdler was saying our land was better than Mullins’s Meadows.” 

“ How should he know anything about it inquired the old lady indignantly. 
“Miller’s a conceited coxcomb, and you may tell him I said so.” Saying which, 
the old lady, quite unconscious that she had spoken above a whisper, drew herseli 
up, and looked carving-knives at the hard-headed delinquent. 

“Come, come,” said the bustling host, with a natural anxiety to change the 
conversation, — “What say you to a rubber, Mr. Pickwick.?” 

“ I should like it of all things,” replied that gentleman; “but pray don’t make 
up one on my account.” 

“ Oh, I assure you, mother’s very fond of a rubber,” said Mr. Wardle; “an’t 
you, mother?” 

The old lady, who was much less deaf on this subject than on any other, replied 
in the affirmative. 

“Joe, Joe!” said the old gentleman; “Joe — damn that — oh, here he is ; put 
out the card-tables.” 

The lethargic youth contrived without any additional rousing to set out two 
card-tables ; the one for Pope Joan, and the other for whist. The whist-players 
were Mr. Pickwick and the old lady ; Mr. Miller and the fat gentleman. The 
round game comprised the rest of the company. 

The rubber was conducted with all that gravity of deportment and sedateness 
of demeanoir uhich befit the pursuit entitled “ whist” — a solemn obser'-'ance. to 
which, as it appears to us, the title of “game ’’has been very ii reverently and 
ignomiiiiously applied. The ’■ound-game table, on the other hand, was so boistet- 


44 


The P'lckuhck Club, 


ously merry as materially to interrupt the contemplations of Mr. Miller, who, not 
being quite so much absorbed as he ought to have been, contrived to commit 
various high crimes and misdemeanours, which excited the wrath of the fat gentle- 
man to a very great extent, and called forth the good-humour of the old lady in a 
proportionate degree. 

“ There !” said the criminal Miller triumphantly, as he took up the odd trick at 
the conclusion of a hand ; “ that could not have been played better, I flatter 
myself ; — impossible to have made another trick ! ” 

“ Miller ought to have trumped the diamond, oughtn’t he, sir ?” said the old 
lady. 

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent. 

“ Ought I, though ?” said the unfortunate, with a doubtful appeal to his partner. 

“You ought, sir,” said the fat gentleman, in an awful voice. 

“Very sorry,” said the crest-fallen Miller. 

“ Much use that,” growled the fat gentleman. 

“Two by honours makes us eight,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Another hand. “ Can you one .?” inquired the old lady. 

“ I can,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ Double, single, and the rub.” 

“Never was such luck,” said Mr. Miller. 

“Never was such cards,” said the fat gentleman. 

A solemn silence : Mr. Pickwick humorous, the old lady serious, the fat gentle- 
man captious, and Mr. Miller timorous. 

“ Another double,” said the old lady; triumphantly making a memorandum of 
the circumstance, by placing one sixpence and a battered halfpenny under the 
candlestick. 

“ A double, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Quite aware of the fact, sir,” replied the fat gentleman, sharply. 

Another game, with a similar result, was followed by a revoke from the unlucky 
Miller ; on which the fat gentleman burst into a state of high personal excite- 
ment which lasted until the conclusion of the game, when he retired into a comer, 
and remained perfectly mute for one hour and twenty-seven minutes ; at the end 
of which time he emerged from his retirement, and offered Mr. Pickwick a pinch 
of snuff with the air of a man who had made up his mind to a Christian forgive- 
ness of injuries sustained. The old lady’s hearing decidedly improved, and the 
unlucky Miller felt as much out of his element as a dolphin in a sentry-box. 

Meanwhile the round game proceeded right merrily. Isabella Wardle and 
Mr. Trundle “went partners,” and Emily Wardle and Mr. Snodgrass did the 
same; and even Mr. Tupman and the spinster aunt established a joint-stock 
company of fish and flattery. Old Mr. Wardle was in the veiy height of his 
jollity ; and he was so funny in his management of the board, and the old ladies 
were so sharp after their winnings, that the whole table was in a perpetual roar of 
merriment and laughter. There was one old lady who always had about half a 
dozen cards to pay for, at which everybody laughed, regularly every round ; and 
when the old lady looked cross at having to pay, they laughed louder than ever ; 
on which the old lady’s face gradually brightened up, till at last she laughed 
louder than any of them. Then, when the spinster aunt got “matrimony,” the 
young ladies laughed afresh, and the spinster aunt seemed disposed to be pettish ; 
till, feeling Mr. Tupman squeezing her hand under the table, she brightened up 
too, and looked rather knowing, as if matrimony in reality were not quite so far 
oft as some people thought for ; whereupon everybody laughed again, and espe- 
cially old Mr. Wardle, who enjoyed a joke as much as the youngest. As to 
Mr. Snodgrass, he did nothing but whisper poetical sentiments into his partner’s 
ear, which made one old gentleman facetiously sly, about oartnerships at cards 


45 


Some indifferent Verses are recited. 


»nd partnerships for life, and caused the aforesaid old gentleman to make some 
remarks thereupon, accompanied with divers winks and chuckles, which made the 
company very meny and the old gentleman’s wife especially so. And Mr. Winkle 
pme out with jokes which are very well known in town, but are not at all known 
in the country : and as everybody laughed at them very heartily, and said they 
were very capital, Mr. Winkle was in a state of great honour and glory. And 
the benevolent clergyman looked pleasantly on ; for the happy faces which sur- 
rounded the table made the good old man feel happy too ; and though the merri- 
ment was rather boisterous, still it came from the heart and not from the lips : and 
this is the right sort of merriment, after all. 

The evening glided swiftly away, in these cheerful recreations ; and when tk.e 
substantial though homely supper had been despatched, and the little party formed 
a social circle round the fire, Mr. Pickwick thought he had never felt so happy in 
his life, and at no time so much disposed to enjoy, and make the most of, the 
passing moment. 

“ Now this,” said the hospitable host, who was sitting in gieat state next the 
old lady’s arm-chair, with her hand fast clasped in his — “ This is just what I like 
— the happiest moments of my life have been passed at this old fire-side : and I am 
so attached to it, that I keep up a blaaing fire here eveiy evening, until it actually 
grows too hot to bear it. Why, my poor old mother, here, used to sit before this 
fii-e-place upon that little stool when she was a girl ; didn’t you, mother } ” 

The tear which starts unbidden to the eye when the recollection of old times 
and the happiness of many years ago is suddenly recalled, stole down the old 
lady’s face as she shook her head with a melancholy smile. 

“You must excuse my talking about this old place, Mr. Pickwick,” resumed 
the host, after a short pause, “ for I love it dearly, and know no other — the old 
houses and fields seem like living friends to me ; and so does our little church 
with the i\y, — about which, by-the-bye, our excellent friend there made a song 
when he first came amongst us. Mr. Snodgrass, have you anything in your 
glass .? ” 

“Plenty, thank you,” replied that gentleman, whose poetic curiosity had been 
greatly excited by the last obseiwations of his entertainer. “ I beg your pardon, 
but you were talking about the song of the Ivy.” 

“ You must ask our friend opposite about that,” said the host knowingly : in- 
dicating the clerg)TOan by a nod of his head. 

“ May I say that I should like to hear you repeat it, sir?” said Mr. Snod- 
grass. 

“ Why really,” replied the clergyman, “it’s a very slight affair ; and the only 
excuse I have for having ever perpetrated it is, that I was a young man at the 
time. Such as it is, however, you shall hear it if you wish.” 

A murmur of curiosity was of course the reply ; and the old gentleman pro- 
ceeded to recite, with the aid of sundry promptings from his wife, the lines in 
questiofi. “ I call them,” said he, 

THE IVY GREEN. 

Oh, a dainty plant is the Ivy green, 

That creepeih o er ruins old ! 

Of right choice food are his meals I ween. 

In his cel! so lone and cold. 

'I he wall niu.st be crumbled, he stone decaye<I, 

To pleasure his dainty whim : 

And the mouldering dust that years have made, 

Is a merry meal for him . 

Creeping where no life is seen, 

A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 


4<5 


The Pickwick Cluh, 


Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, 

And a staunch old heart has he. 

How closely he twineih, how tight he clings^ 

To his friend 1 he huge Oak Tree ! 

And slily he traileth along the gi'ound, 

And his leaves he gently waves, 

As he joj'ously hugs and crawleth round 
The rich mould of dead men’s graves. 

Creeping where grim death has been, 

A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed. 

And nations have scattered been ; 

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade, 

From its hale and hearty green. 

The brave old plant in its lonely days, 

Shall fatten upon the past: 

For the stateliest building man can raise. 

Is the Ivy’s food at last. 

Creeping on, where lime has been, 

A rare old plant is the Ivy green. 

While the old gentleman repeated these lines a second time, to enable Mr. 
Snodgrass to note them down, Mr. Pickwick perused the lineaments of his face 
with an expression of great interest. The old gentleman having concluded his 
dictation, and Mr. Snodgrass having returned his note-book to his pocket, Mr. 
Pickwick said ; 

“Excuse me, sir, for making the remark on so short an acquaintance ; but a 
gentleman like yourself cannot fail, I should think, to have observed many scenes 
and incidents worth recording, in the course of your experience as a minister of the 
Gospel.” 

“ I have witnessed some certainly,” replied the old gentleman; “but the in- 
cidents and characters have been of a homely and ordinary nature, my sphere of 
action being so very limited.” 

Yon did make some notes, I think, about John Edmunds, did you not.?” 
inquired Mr. Wardle, who appeared very desirous to draw his friend out, for the 
edification of his new visitors. 

The old gentleman slightly nodded his head in token of assent, and was pro- 
ceeding to change the subject, when Mr. Pickwick said — 

“ I beg your pardon, sir ; but pray, if I may venture to inquire, who was John 
Edmunds } ” 

“The very thing I was about to ask,” said Mr. Snodgrass, eagerly. 

“ You are fairly in for it,” said the jolly host. “ You must satisfy the curiosity 
of these gentlemen, sooner or later; so you had better take advantage of this 
favourable opportunity, and do so at once.” 

The old gentleman smiled good-humouredly as he drew his chair forward ; — ■ 
the remainder of the party drew their chairs closer together, especially Mr. Tup- 
man and the spinster aunt, who were possibly rather hard of hearing ; and the old 
lady’s ear trumpet having been duly adjusted, and Mr. Miller (who had fallen 
asleep during the recital of the verses^ roused from his slumbers by an admonitory 
pinch, administered beneath the table by his ex-partner the solemn fat man, the 
old gentleman, without farther preface, commenced the following tale, to which 
we have taken the liberty of prefixing the title of 

THE CONVICT’S RETURN. 

“When I first settled in this village,” said the old gentleman, “which is now 
Just five-and-twenty years ago, the most notorious person among my parishioners 


Evil Communications, 


47 


was a man of the name of Edmunds, who leased a small farm near this spot. He 
was a morose, savage-hearted, bad man : idle and dissolute in his habits ; cruel 
arid ferocious in his disposition. Beyond the few lazy and reckless vagabonds 
with whom he sauntered away his time in the fields, or sotted in the ale-house, he 
had n :)t a single friend or acquaintance ; no one cared to speak to the man whom 
many feared, and every one detested — and Edmunds was shunned by all. 

“This man had a wife and one son, who, when I first came here, was about 
twelve years old. Of the acuteness of that woman’s sufferings, of the gentle and 
enduring manner in which she bore them, of the agony of solicitude with which 
she reared that boy, no one can form an adequate conception. Heaven forgive me 
the supposition, if it be an uncharitable one, but I do firmly and in my soul believe, 
that the man systematically tried for many years to break her heart ; but she bore 
it all for her child’s sake, and, however strange it may seem to many, for his 
father’s too ; for brute as he was and cruelly as he had treated her, she had loved 
him once ; and the recollection of what he had been to her, awakened feelings of 
forbearance and meekness under suffering in her bosom, to which all God’s 
creatures, but women, are strangers. 

“ They were poor — they could not be otherwise when the man pursued such 
courses ; but the woman’s unceasing and unwearied exertions, early and late, 
morning, noon, and night, kept them above actual want. Those exertions were 
but ill repaid. People who passed the spot in the evening — sometimes at a late 
hour of the night — reported that they had heard the moans and sobs of a woman 
in distress, and the sound of blows : and more than once, when it was past mid- 
night, the boy knocked softly at the door of a neighbour’s house, whither he had 
been sent, to escape the drunken fury of his unnatural father. 

“ During the whole of this time, and when the poor creature often bore about 
her marks of ill-usage and violence which she could not wholly conceal, she was a 
constant attendant at our little church. Regularly every Sunday, morning and 
afternoon, she occupied the same seat with the boy at her side ; and though they 
were both poorly dressed — much more so than many of their neighbours who were 
in a lower station — they were always neat and clean. Every one had a friendly 
nod and a kind word for ‘ poor Mrs. Edmunds ; ’ and sometimes, when she stopped 
to exchange a few words with a neighbour at the conclusion of the seiwice in the 
little row of elm trees which leads to the church porch, or lingered behind to gaze 
with a mother’s pride and fondness upon her healthy boy, as he sported before her 
with some little companions, her care-worn face would lighten up with an expres- 
sion of heartfelt gratitude ; and she would look, if not cheerful and happy, at least 
tranquil and contented. 

“Five or six years passed away ; the boy had become a robust and well-grown 
youth. The time that had strengthened the child’s slight frame and knit his weak 
limbs into the strength of manhood had bowed his mother’s form, and enfeebled 
her steps ; but the arm that should have supported her was no longer locked in 
hers ; the face that should have cheered her, no more looked upon her own. She 
occupied her old seat, but there was a vacant one beside her. The Bible was kept 
as carefully as ever, the places were found and folded down as they used to be : 
but there was no one to read it with her ; and the tears fell thick and fast upon 
the book, and blotted the words from her eyes. Neighbours were as kind as they 
were wont to be of old, but she shunned their gi-eetings with averted head. There 
was no lingering among the old elm trees now — no cheering anticipations of hap- 
piness yet in store. The desolate woman drew her bonnet closer over her face, 
and walked hurriedly away. 

“ Shall I tell you, that the young man, who, looking back to the earliest of his 
chiiihood’s days ( -> which memory and consciousness extended, and cairying his 


48 


The Pickwick Cliib. 


recollection down to that moment, could remember nothing which was not in 
some way connected with a long series of voluntaiy privations suffered by his 
mother for his sake, with ill-usage, and insult, and violence, and all endured for 
him ; — shall I tell you, that he, with a reckless disregard of her breaking heart, 
and a sullen wilful forgetfulness of all she had done and borne for him, had linked 
himself with depraved and abandoned men, and was madly pursuing a headlong 
career, which must bring death to him, and shame to her ? Alas for human 
nature ! You have anticipated it long since. 

“ The measure of the unhappy woman’s misery and misfortune was about to be 
completed. Numerous offences had been committed in the neighbourhood ; the 
perpetrators remained undiscovered, and their boldness increased. A robbery of 
a daring and aggravated nature occasioned a vigilance of pursuit, and a strictness 
of search, they had not calculated on. Young Edmunds was suspected with three 
companions. He was apprehended — committed — tried— condemned — to die. 

“ The wild and piercing shriek from a woman’s voice, which resounded through 
the court when the solemn sentence was pronounced, rings in my ears at this 
moment. That cry struck a terror to the culprit’s heart, which trial, condemna- 
tion — the approach of death itself, had failed to awaken. The lips which had betn 
compressed in dogged sullenness throughout, quivered and parted involuntarily, 
the face turned ashy pale as the cold perspiration broke forth from every pore ; 
the sturdy limbs of the felon trembled, and he staggered in the dock. 

“ In the first transports of her mental anguish, the suffering mother threw her- 
self upon her knees at my feet, and fervently besought the Almighty Being who 
had hitherto supported her in all her troubles, to release her from a world of woe 
and misery, and to spare the life of her only child. A burst of grief, and a violent 
struggle, such as I hope I may never have to witness again, succeeded. I knew 
that her heart was breaking from that hour ; but I never once heard complaint or 
murmur escape her lips. 

“ It was a piteous spectacle to see that woman in the prison yard from day to 
day, eagerly and fervently attempting, by affection and entreaty, to soften the hard 
heart of her obdurate son. It was in vain. He remained moody, obstinate, and 
unmoved. Not even the unlooked-for commutation of his sentence to transportation 
for fourteen years, softened for an instant the sullen hardihood of his demeanour. 

“ But the spirit of resignation and endurance that had so long upheld her, was 
unable to contend against bodily weakness and infirmity. She fell sick. She 
dragged her tottering limbs from the bed to visit her soil once more, but her 
strength failed her, and she sunk powerless on the ground. 

“ And now the boasted coldness and indifference of the young man were tested 
indeed ; and the retribution that fell heavily upon him, nearly drove him mad. A 
day passed away and his mother was not there ; another flew by, and she came 
not near him ; a third evening arrived, and yet he had not seen her ; and in four- 
and-twenty hours he was to be separated from her — perhaps for ever. Oh ! how 
the long- forgotten thoughts of former days rushed upon his mind, as he almost 
ran up and down the narrow yard — as if intelligence would arrive the sooner for 
his hurrying — and how bitterly a sense of his helplessness and desolation rushed 
upon him, when he heard the truth ! His mother, the only parent he had ever 
known, lay ill — it might be, dying — within one mile of the ground he stood 
on; w'ere he free and unfettered, a few minutes would place him by her side. He 
rushed to the gate, and grasping the iron rails with the energy of desperation, 
shook it till it rang again, and threw himself against the thick wall as if to force a 

E assage through the stone ; but the strong building mocked his feeble efforts, and 
e beat his hands together and wept like a child. 

“ I bore the mother’s forgiveness and blessing to her son in prison ; and \ 


A Softened Heart. 


49 


earned his solemn assurance of repentance, and his fervent suppliv^ation tor pardon, 
to her sick bed. I heard, with pity and compassion, the repentant man devise a 
thousand little plans for her comfort and support when he returned ; but I knew 
that many months before he could reach his place of destination, his mother would 
be no longer of this world. 

“ He was removed by night. A few weeks afterwards the poor woman’s soul 
took its flight, I confidently hope, and solemnly believe, to a place of eternal 
happiness and rest. I performed the burial seiwice over her remains. She lies 
in our little churchyard. There is no stone at her grave’s head. Her sorrows 
were known to man ; her virtues to God. 

“ It had been arranged previously to the convict’s departure, that he should 
write to his mother as soon as he could obtain permission, and that the letter 
should be addressed to me. The father had positively refused to see his son from 
the moment of his apprehension ; and it was a matter of indifference to him 
whether he lived or died. Many years passed over without any intelligence of 
him ; and when more than half his term of transportation had expired, and I had 
received no letter, I concluded him to be dead, as indeed, I almost hoped he 
might be. 

“ Edmunds, however, had been sent a considerable distance up the countiy on 
his arrival at the settlement ; and to this circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed 
the fact, that though several letters were despatched, none of them ever reached 
my hands. He remained in the same place during the whole fourteen years. At 
the expiration of the term, steadily adhering to his old resolution and the pledge 
he gave his mother, he made his way back to England amidst innumerable difli- 
culties, and returned, on foot, to his native place. 

“ On a fine Sunday evening, in the month of August, John Edmunds set foot 
in the village he had left with shame and disgrace seventeen years before. His 
nearest way lay through the churchyard. The man’s heart swelled as he crossed 
the stile. The tall old elms, through whose branches the declining sun cast here 
and there a rich ray of light upon the shady path, awakened the associations of 
his earliest days. He pictured himself as he was then, clinging to his mother’s 
hand, and walking peacefully to church. He remembered how he used to look 
up into her pale face ; and how her eyes would sometimes fill with tears as she 
gazed upon his features — tears which fell hot upon his forehead as she stooped to 
kiss him, and made him weep too, although he little knew then what bitter tears 
hers were. He thought how often he had run merrily down that path with some 
childish playfellow, looking back, ever and again, to catch his mother’s smile, 
or hear her gentle voice ; and then a veil seemed lifted from his memory, and words 
of kindness unrequited, and warnings despised, and promises broken, thronged 
upon his recollection till his heart failed him, and he could bear it no longer. 

“ He entered the church. The evening service was concluded and the con- 
gregation had dispersed, but it was not yet closed- His steps echoed through the 
low building with a hollow sound, and he almost feared to be alone, it was so 
still and quiet. He looked round him. Nothing was changed. The place 
seemed smaller than it used to be, but there were the old monuments on which 
he had gazed with childish awe a thousand times ; the little pulpit with its faded 
cushion ; the Communion-table before which he had so often repeated the Com- 
mandments he had reverenced as a child, and forgotten as a man. He appr(»ached 
the old seat ; it looked cold and desolate. The cushion had been removed, and the 
Bible was not there. Perhaps his mother now occupied a poorer seat, or possibly 
she had grown infirm and could not reach the church alone. He dared not think 
of what he feared. A cold feeling crept over him, and he trembled violently as 
he turned awa}’. 


E 


5 ° 


The Picha’ick Club, 


“ An old man entered the porch just as he reached it. Edmunds started back., 
for he knew him well ; many a time he had watched him digging giaves tn tb« 
churchyard. What would he say to the returned convict ? 

“The old man raised his eyes to the stranger’s face, bid him ‘ good evening,' 
and walked slowly on. He had forgotten him. 

“ He walked down the hill, and through the village. The weather was warm, 
and the people were sitting at their doors, or strolling in their little gardens as he 
passed, enjoying the serenity of the evening, and their rest from labour. Many 
a look was turned towards him, and many a doubtful glance he cast on eitlier side 
to see whether any knew and shunned him. There were strange faces m almost 
every house ; in some he recognised the burly form of some old schoolfellow —a boy 
when he last saw him — .surrounded by a "troop of merry children ; in otheis he 
saw, seated in an easy-chair at a cottage door, a feeble and infirm old man, whom 
he only remembered as a hale and hearty labourer ; but they had all forgotten 
him, and he passed on unknown. 

“ The last soft light of the setting sun had fallen on the earth, casting a rich 
glow on the yellow com sheaves, and lengthening the shadows of the orchard 
trees, as he stood before the old house — the home of his infancy — ^to which his 
heart had yearned with an intensity of affection not to be described, through long 
and weary years of captivity and sorrow. The paling was low, though he well 
remembered the time when it had seemed a high wall to him : and he looked over 
into the old garden. There were more seeds and gayer flowers than there used 
to be, but there were the old trees still — the veiy tree, under which he had lam a 
thousand times when tired of playing in the sun, and felt the soft mild sleep of 
happy boyhood steal gently upon him. There w'ere voices within the house. He 
listened, but they fell strangely upon his ear ; he knew them not. They were 
merry too ; and he well luiew that his poor old mother could noi be cheerful, and 
he away. The door opened, and a group of little children bounded out, shouting 
and romping. The father, with a little boy in his arms, appeared at the dooi, 
and they crowded round him, clapping their tiny hands, and dragging him out, 
to join their joyous sports. The convict thought on the many times he had shrunk 
from his father’s sight in tliat very place. He remembered how often he had 
buried his trembling head beneath the bed-clothes, and heard the harsh word, and 
the hard stripe, and his mother’s wailing ; and though the man sobbed aloud with 
agony of mind as he left the spot, his fist was clenched, and his teeth were set, in 
fierce and deadly passion. 

“ And such was the return to which he had looked through the weary perspec- 
tive of many years, and for which he had undergone so much suffering ! No face 
of welcome, no look of forgiveness, no house to receive, no hand to help him — • 
and this too in the old village. What was his loneliness in the wild thick woods, 
where man was never seen, to this ! 

“ He felt that in the distant land of his bondage and infamy, he had thought of 
his native place as it was when he left it ; not as it would be when he returned. 
The sad reality struck coldly at his heart, and his spirit sank within him. He 
had not courage to make inquiries, or to present himself to the only person who 
was likely to receive him with kindness and compassion. He walked slowly on ; 
and shunning the road-side like a guilty man, turned into a meadow he well 
remembered ; and covering his face with his hands, threw himself upon the grass. 

“ He had not observed that a man was lying on the bank be>-ide him ; his 
garments rustled as he turned round to steal a look at the new-comer; and 
Edmunds raised his head. 

“ The man had moved into a sitting posture. His body was much bent, and 
his face was wrinkled and yellow. His dress denoted him inmate of ^he wruk- 


The Tale concluded. 


house : he had the appearance of being very old, but it looked more ihe effect ol 
dissipation or disease, than length of years. He was staring hard at the stranger, 
and though his eyes were lustreless and heavy at first, they appeared to gl')w with 
an unnatural and alarmed expression after they had been fixed upon him for a 
ihort time, until they seemed to be starting from their sockets. Edmund ; gradually 
raised himself to his knees, and looked more and more earnestly upon the old 
man’s face. They gazed upon each other in silence. 

“ The old man was ghastly pale. He shuddered and tottered to his feet. 
Edmunds sprang to his. He stepped back a pace or two. Edmunds advanced. 

“ ‘ Let me hear you speak,’ said the convict, in a thick broken voice. 

“‘Standoff!’ cried the old man, with a dreadful oath. The convict drew 
closer to him. 

“‘Standoff!’ shrieked the old man. Furious with terror he raised his stick, 
and struck Edmunds a heavy blow across the face. 

“‘Father — devil!’ murmured the convict, between his set teeth. He rushed 
wildly forward, and clenched the old man by the throat — but he was his father ; 
and his arm fell powerless by his side. 

“ The old man uttered a loud yell which rang through the lonely fields like the 
howl of an evil spirit. His face turned black : the gore rushed from his mouth 
and nose, and dyed the grass a deep dark red, as he staggered and fell. He had 
ruptured a blood-vessel : and he was a dead man before his son could raise him. 

• ««•••* 

“ In that comer of the churchyard,” said the old gentleman, after a silence of a 
few moments, “in that comer of the churchyard of which I have before spoken, 
there lies buried a man, who was in my employment for three years after this 
event ; and who was truly contrite, penitent, and humbled, if ever man was. No 
one save myself knew in that man’s lifetime who he was, or whence he came : — it 
was John Edmunds the retmned convict.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

HOW MR. WINKLE, INSTEAD OF SHOOTING AT THE PIGEON AND KILLING THE 
CROW, SHOT AT THE CROW AND WOUNDED THE PIGEON ; HOW THE DING- 
LEY DELL CRICKET CLUB PLAYED ALL-MUGGLETON, AND HOW ALL-MUG- 
GLETON DINED AT THE DINGLEY DELL EXPENSE : WITH OTHER INTEREST- 
ING AND INSTRUCTIVE MATTERS. 

The fatiguing adventures of the day or the somniferous influence of the clergy- 
man’s tale operated so strongly on the drowsy tendencies of Mr. Pickwick, that in 
less than five minutes after he had been shown to his comfortable bed-room, he 
fell into a sound and dreamless sleep, from which he was only awakened by the 
morning sun darting his bright beams reproachfully into the apartment. Mr. Pick- 
wick was n3 sluggard; and he sprang like an ardent warrior from his tent- 

bedstead. . 1 j 

“ Pleasant, pleasant country,” sighed the enthusiastic gentleman, as he opened 
his lattice window. “ Who could live to gaze from day to day on bricks and 
slates, who had once felt the influence of a scene like this } Who could continue 
to exist, where there are no cows but the cows on the chimney-pots ; nothing re- 


The Pickwick Club, 


5 ^ 


dolent of Pan but pan^tiles ; no crop but stone crop ? Who could bear to drag 
out a life in such a spot? Who I ask could endure it?” and having cross- 
examined solitude after the most approved precedents, at considerable lengtii, 
Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of the lattice, and looked around him. 

The rich, sweet smell of the hayricks rose to his chamber window ; the hundred- 
perfumes of the little flower-garden beneath scented the air around ; the deep- 
green meadows shone in the morning dew that glistened on every leal as it 
trembled in the gentle air ; and the birds sang as if every sparkling drop were a 
fountain of inspiration to them. Mr. Pickwick fell into an enchanting and 
delicious reverie. 

“ Hallo !” was the sound that roused him. 

He looked to the right, but he saw nobody ; his eyes wandered to the left, and 
pierced the prospect ; he stared into the sky, but he wasn’t wanted there ; and 
then he did what a common mind would have done at once — looked into the 


garden, and there saw Mr. Wardle. 

“How are you?” said that good-humoured individual, out of breath with Ins 
OAvn anticipations of pleasure. “Beautiful morning, an’tit? Glad to see you 
up so early. Make haste down, and come out. I’ll wait for you here. ’ 

Mr. Pickwick needed no second invitation. Ten minutes sufficed for the com- 
pletion of his toilet, and at the expiration of that time he was by the old gentle- 
man’s side. 

“Hallo!” said Mr. Pickudck in his turn: seeing that his companion was 
armed with a gun, and that another lay ready on the grass. “ What’s going 
forward?” 

“Why, your friend and 1,” replied the host, “are going out rook-shootmg 
before breakfast. “ He’s a very good shot, an’t he ?” 

“ I’ve heard him say he’s a capital one,” replied Mr. Pickwick ; “but I never 
saw him aim at anything.” 

“ Well,” said the host, “ I wish he’d come. Joe — ^Joe I ” 

The fat boy, who under the exciting influence of the morning did not appear to 
be more than three parts and a fraction asleep, emerged from the house. 

“ Go up, and call the gentleman, and tell him he’ll find me and Mr. Pickwick 
in the rookery. Show the gentleman the way there ; d’ye hear ?” 

The boy departed to execute his commission ; and the host, carrying both guns 
like a second Robinson Crusoe, led the way from the garden. 

“ This is the place,” said the old gentleman, pausing after a few minutes walk- 
ing, in an avenue of trees. The information was unnecessary ; for the incessant 
cawing of the unconscious rooks sufficiently indicated their whereabout. 

The old gentleman laid one gun on the ground, and loaded the other. 

“ Here they are,” said Mr. Pickwick ; and as he spoke, the forms of Mr. Tup- 
man, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mr. Winkle appeared in the distance. The fat boy, 
not being quite certain which gentleman he was directed to call, had with peculiar 
sagacity, and to prevent the possibility of any mistake, called them all. 

“Come along,” shouted the old gentleman, addressing Mr. Winkle; “ a keen 
hand like you ought to have been up long ago, even to such poor work as this.” 

Mr. Winkle responded with a forced smile, and took up the spare gun with an 
expression of countenance which a metaphysical rook, impressed with a foreboding 
of his approaching death by violence, may be supposed to assume. It might have 
been keenness, but it looked remarkably like misery. 

The old gentleman nodded ; and two ragged boys who had been marshalled to 
the spot under the direction of the infant Lambert, forthwith commenced climbing 
up cwo of ^he trees. 

“ WHiat arc those lads for ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly. He was rather 


A Well-intended IS hot. 


53 


ilarmed ; for he was not quite certain but that the distress of the agricultural 
interest, about which he had often heard a great deal, might have compelled the 
small boys attached to the soil to earn a precarious and hazardous subsistence by 
making marks of themselves for inexperienced sportsmen. 

“ Only to start the game,” replied Mr. Wardle, laughing. 

“ To whai ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Why, in plain English to frighten the rooks.” 

“ Oh ! is that all ? ” 

** You are satisfied ? ” 

“ Quite.” 

“ Very well. Shall I begin ? ” 

“ If you please,” said Mr. Winkle, glad of any respite. 

“ Stand aside, then. Now for it.” 

The boy shouted, and shook a branch with a nest on it. Half a dozen young 
rooks in violent conversation, flew out to ask what the matter was. The old 
gentleman fired by way of reply. Down fell one bird, and off flew the others. 

“Take him up, Joe,” said the old gentleman. 

There was a smile upon the youth’s face as he advanced. Indistinct visions of 
rook-pie floated through his imagination. He laughed as he retired with the bird 
■ — it was a plump one. 

“ Now, Mr. Winkle,” said the host, reloading his own gun. “ Fire away.” 

Mr. Winkle advanced, and levelled his gun. Mr. Pickwick and his friends 
cowered involuntarily to escape damage from the heavy fall of rooks, which they 
felt quite certain would be occasioned by the devastating barrel of their friend. 
There was a solemn pause — a shout — a flapping of wings — a faint click. 

“ Hallo ! ” said the old gentleman. 

“ Won’t it go .?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Missed fire,” said Mr. Winkle, who was very pale : probably from disappoint- 
ment. 

“ Odd,” said the old gentleman, taking the gun. “ Never knew one of them 
miss fire before, ^^y, I don’t see anything of the cap.” 

“ Bless my soul,” said Mr. Winlde. “ I declare I forgot the cap ! ” 

The slight omission was rectified. Mr. Pickwick crouched again. Mr. Winlde 
stepped forward with an air of determination and resolution ; and Mr. Tupman 
looked out from behind a tree. The boy shouted ; four birds flew out. Mr. 
Winkle fired. There was a scream as of an individual — not a rook— in corporeal 
anguish. Mr. Tupman had saved the lives of innumerable unoffending birds by 
receiving a portion of the charge in his left arm. 

To describe the confusion that ensued would be impossible. To tell how Mr. 
Pickwick in the first transports of his emotion called Mr. Winkle “ Wretch ! ” 
how Mr. Tupman lay prostrate on the ground ; and how Mr. Winlde knelt horror- 
stricken beside him ; how Mr. Tupman called distractedly upon some feminine 
Christian name, and then opened first one eye, and then the other, and then fell 
back and shut them both all this would be as difficult to describe in detail, as it 
would be to depict the gradual recovering of the unfortunate individual, the bind- 
ing up of his arm with pocket-handkerchiefs, and the conveying him back by slow 
degrees supported by the arms of his anxious friends. 

They drew near the house. The ladies were at the garden-gate, waiting foi 
their arrival and their breakfast. The spinster aunt appeared ; she smiled, and 
beckoned them to walk quicker. ’Twas evident she knew not of the disaster. 
Poor thing ! there are times when ignorance is bliss indeed. 

They approached nearer. 

“ Why, what is the matter with the little old gentleman ? ” said Isabefla Wardle. 


54 


The Pickwick Club, 


The spinster aunt heeded not the remark ; she thought it applied to Mr. Pickwdck. 
In her eyes Tracy Tupman was a youth ; she viewed his years through a diminish* 
ing glass. 

“ Don’t be frightened,” called out the old host, fearful of alarming his daughters. 
The little party had cjowded so completely round Mr, Tupman, that they could 
not yet clearly discern the nature of the accident. 

“ Don’t be frightened,” said the host. • 

“ What’s the matter } ” screamed the ladies. 

“ Mr. Tupman has met with a little accident ; that’s all.” 

The spinster aunt uttered a piercing scream, burst into an hysteric laugh, and 
fell backwards in the arms of her nieces. 

“ Throw some cold water over her,” said the old gentleman. 

“ No, no,” murmured the spinster aunt ; >“ I am better now. Bella, Emily — a 

surgeon ! Is he wounded .? — Is he dead Is he ha, ha, ha ! ” Here the 

spinster aunt burst into fit number two, of hysteric laughter interspersed with 
screams. 

“ Calm yourself,” said Mr. Tupman, affected almost to tears by this expression 
of sympathy with his sufferings. “ Dear, dear madam, calm yourself.” 

“ It is his voice ! ” exclaimed the spinster aunt ; and strong symptoms of fit 
number three developed themselves forthwith. 

“ Do not agitate yourself, I entreat you, dearest madam,” said Mr. Tupman 
soothingly. “ I am very little hurt, I assure you.” 

“ Then you are not dead ! ” ejaculated the hysterical lady. “ Oh, say you are 
not dead ! ” 

“ Don’t be a fool, Rachael,” interposed Mr. Wardle, rather more roughly than 
was quite consistent with the poetic nature of the scene. “ What the devil’s the 
use of his saying he isn’t dead ? ” 

“No, no, I am not,” said Mr. Tupman. “I require no assistance out vours. 
Let me lean on your arm.” He added, in a whisper, Oh. Miss Rachael ! ” 
The agitated female advanced, and off ered her arm. They turnea into tne oreaK- 
fast parlour. Mr. Tracy Tupman gently pressed her hand to his lips, and sank 
upon the sofa. 

“ Are you faint inquired the anxious Rachael. 

“ No,” said Mr. Tupman. “ It is nothing. I shall be better presently.” He 
I'losed his eyes. 

^ “ He sleeps,” murmured the spinster aunt. (His organs of vision had been 
dosed nearly twenty seconds). “ Dear — dear — Mr. Tupman !” 

Mr. Tupman jumped up— “ Oh, say those words again ! ” he exclaimed. 

•The lady started. “ Surely you did not hear them ! ” she said, bashfully. 

“ Oh yes I did ! ” replied Mr. Tupman ; “ repeat them. If you would have me 
recover, repeat them.” 

“ Hush ! ” said the lady. “ My brother.” 

Mr. Tracy Tupman resumed his fonner position ; and Mr. Wardle, accompanied 
by a surgeon, entered the room. 

“The arm was examined, the wound dressed, and pronounced to be a veiy 
slight one ; and the minds of the company having been thus satisfied, they pro- 
ceeded to satisfy their appetites with countenances to which an expression ol 
^eerfulness was again restored. Mr. Pickwick alone was silent and reseiwed 
Doubt and disti-ust were exhibited in his countenance. His confidence in Mr’ 
Winkle had been shaken— greatly shaken— bv the proceedings of the mornin<^ 

“ Are you a cricketer i ” inquiied Mr. Wardle of the marksman. 

At ani other time, Mr. Winkle would have replied in the affirmative. He felt 
the delicacy of his situation, and modestly replied, “No.” 


55 


The Illustrious Town of Muggleton, 

“ Are yv/u, sK ? ’’ iuqrired Mr. Snodgrass. 

I was oi-re uyon a dme,” replied the host ; “ but I have given it up now. 1 
subscribe to tK-^ club heie, but I don’t play.” 

“ The grand i.iafcL is olayed tc-day, I believe,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ It is,” replied the hoi^t. “ Of course you would like to see it.” 

“ I, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “ am delighted to view any sports which may 
be safely indulged in, and it which the impotent effects of unskilful people do not 
endanger human life.” Mr. Pickwick paused, and looked sieadily on Mr. Winkle, 
who quailed beneath his lead.ei ’s searching glance. The great man withdrew his 
eyes after a few minutes, ard added : “ Shall we be justified in leaving our 
wounded friend to the care of the kdies ?” 

“ You cannot leave me in better hinds,” said Mr. Tupman. 

“ Quite impossible,” said Mr. .Snodgrass. 

It was therefore settled that Mi. Tupman should be left at home in charge of 
the females ; and that the remaindei of the guests, under the guidance of Mr. 
Wardle, should proceed to the spot wnere was to be held that trial of skill, which 
had roused all Muggleton from its torpor, and inoculated Dingley Dell with a 
fever of excitement. 

As their walk, which was not above two miles long, lay through shady lanes, 
and sequestered footpaths, and as their conversation turned upon the delightful 
scenery by which they were on every side surrounded, Mr. Pickwick was almost 
inclined to regret the expedition they had used, when he found himself in the main 
street of the town of Muggleton. 

Eveiybody whose genius has a topographical bent knows perfectly well that 
Muggleton is a corporate town, with a mayor, burgesses, and freemen; and 
anybody who has consulted the addresses of the mayor to the freemen, or the 
freemen to the mayor, or both to the corporation, or all three to Parliament, will 
learn from thence what they ought to have known before, that Muggleton is an 
ancient and loy^al borough, mingling a zealous advocacy of Christian principles 
with a devoted attachment to commercial rights ; in demonstration whereof, the 
mayor, corporation, and other inhabitants, have presented at divers times, no 
few’er than one thousand four hundred and twenty petitions against the con- 
tinuance of negro slavery abroad, and an equal number against any interference 
with the factory system at home ; sixty-eight in favour of the sale of livings in the 
Church, and eighty-six for abolishing Sunday trading in the street. 

Mr. Pickwick stood in the principal street of this illustrious town, and gazed 
with an air of curiosity, not unmiued with interest, on the objects around him. 
There was an open square for the market-place ; and in the centre of it, a large 
inn with a sign-post in front, displaying an object very common in art, but rarely 
met with in nature — to wit, a blue lion, with three bow legs in the air, balancing 
himself on the extreme point of the centr e claw of his fourth foot. There were, wthin 
sight, an auctioneer’s and fire-agency office, a conr-factor’s, a linen-draper’s, a sad- 
dler’s, a distiller’s, a grocer’s, and a shoe-shop — the last-mentioned warehouse being 
also appropriated to the diffusion of hats, bonnets, wearing appar el, cotton um- 
brellas and useful knowledge. There was a red brick house with a small paved 
court-yird in front, which anybody might have known belonged to the attorney ; 
and there was, moreover, another red brick house with Venetian blinds, and a large 
brass door-plate, with a very legible announcerrrent that it belonged to the surgeon. 
A few boys wer-e making their way to the cricket-field ; and two or three shop- 
keepers who were standing at their doors, looked as if they should like to be 
making their way to the same spot, as indeed to all appearance they might have 
done, without losing any gjeat amount of custom thereby. Mr. Pickwick having 
paused to make these observations, to be noted down at a more convenient period. 


5<5 


The Pickwick Club. 


hastened to rejoin his friends, who had turned out of the main street, and were 
already within sight of the field of battle. 

The wickets were pitched, and so were a couple of marquees for the rest and 
refreshment of the contending parties. The game had not yet commenced. Two 
or three Dingley Dellers, and All-Muggletonians, were amusing themselves with 
a majestic air by throwing the ball carelessly from hand to hand ; and several 
other gentlemen dressed like them, in straw hats, flannel jackets, and white 
trousers — a costume in which they looked very much like amateur stone-masons 
■ — ^were sprinlded about the tents, towards one of which Mr. Wardle conducted the 
party. 

Several dozen of “ How-are-you’s ?” hailed the old gentleman’s arrival ; and a 
general raising of the straw hats, and bending fonvard of the flannel jackets, 
followed his introduction of his guests as gentlemen from London, who were 
extremely anxious to witness the proceedings of the day, with which, he had no 
doubt, they would be greatly delighted. 

“ You had better step into the marquee, I think, sir,” said one very stout 
gentleman, whose body and legs looked like half a gigantic roll of flannel, elevated 
on a couple of inflated pillow-cases. 

“You’ll find it much pleasanter, sir,” urged another stout gentleman, who 
strongly resembled the other half of the roll of flannel aforesaid. 

“You’re very good,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“This way,” said the first speaker; “ they notch in here — it’s the best place 
in the whole field ; ” and the cricketer, panting on before, preceded them to the 
tent. 

“Capital game — smart sport — fine exercise — very,” were the words which fell 
upon Mr. Pickwick’s ear as he entered the tent ; and the first object that met 
his eyes was his green-coated friend of the Rochester coach, bolding forth, to the 
no small delight and edification of a select circle of the chosen of All-Muggleton. 
His chess was slightly improved, and he wore boots ; but there was no mistaking 
him. 

The stranger recognised his friends immediately : and, darting forw'-ard and 
seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand, dragged him to a seat with his usual impe- 
tuosity, talking all the while as if the whole of the arrangements were under his 
especial patronage and direction. 

“ This way— this way— capital fun— lots of beer— hogsheads ; rounds of beef- 
bullocks ; mustard — cart loads ; glorious day — down with you — make yourself at 
home — glad to see you — very.” 

Mr. Pickwick sat down as he was bid, and Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass also 
conaphed with the directions of their mysterious friend. Mr. Wardle looked on, 
in silent wonder. 

“ Mr. Wardle— a friend of mine,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Friend of yours !— My dear sir, how are you .?— Friend of my friend’s— give 
me your hand, sir ’’—and the stranger grasped Mr. Wardle’s hand with ail the 
fervour of a close intimacy of many years, and then stepped back a pace or two as 
if to take a full survey of his face and figure, and then shook hands with him again 
if possible, more warmly than before. ’ 

“ Well ; and how came you here said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile in which 
benevolence struggled with surprise. 

“ Come,” replied the stranger— “ stopping at Crown— Crown at Muggleton— 
met a party— flannel jackets— white trousers— anchovy sandwiches — devilled kid- 
neys — splendid fellows — glorious.” 

Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently versed in the stranger’s system of stenography to 
infer from this rapid and disjointed communication that he had, somehow ol 


Assisting at the Match» 


57 

othei, contracted an acquaintance with the All-Muggletons, which he had con- 
verle 3, by a process peculiar to himself, into that extent of good fellowship on 
which a general invitation may be easily founded. His curiosity was therefore 
satisfied, and putting on his spectacles he prepared himself to watch the play 
which was just commencing. 

All-Muggleton had the first innings ; and the interest became intense when Mi. 
Dumkins and Mr. Fodder, two of the most renowned members of that most dis- 
tinguished club, walked, bat in hand, to their respective wickets. Mr. Luffey, 
tl e highest ornament of Dingley Dell, was pitched to bowl again it the redoubt- 
able Dumkins, and Mr. Struggles was selected to do the same kind office for the 
hitherto nnconquered Fodder. Several players were stationed, to “look out,” in 
different parts of the field, and each fixed himself into the proper attitude by placing 
one hand on each knee, and stooping very much as if he were “ making a back ” 
for some beginner at leap-frog. All the regular players do this sort of thing ; — 
indeed it’s generally supposed that it is quite impossible to look out properly in 
any other position. 

The umpires were stationed behind the wickets ; the scorers were prepared to 
notch the runs ; a breathless silence ensued. Mr. Luffey retired a few paces 
behind the wicket of the passive Fodder, and applied the ball to his right eye 
for several seconds. Dumkins confidently awaited its coming with his eyes fixed 
on the motions of Luffey. 

“ Flay ! ” suddenly cried the bowler. The ball flew from his hand straight and 
swift towards the centre stump of the wicket. The wary Dumkins was on the 
alert ; it fell upon the tip of the bat, and bounded far away over tlie heads of the 
scouts, who had just stooped low enough to let it fly over them. 

“ Run — run — another. — Now, then, throw her up — up with her — stop there — 
another — no — yes — no — throw her up, throw her up!” — Such were the shouts 
which followed the stroke ; and, at the conclusion of which All-Muggleton had 
scored two. Nor was Fodder behindhand in earning laurels wherewith to garnish 
himself and Muggleton. He blocked the doubtful balls, missed the bad ones, 
took the good ones, and sent them flying to all parts of the field. The scouts 
were hot and tired ; the bowlers were changed and bowled till their arms ached ; 
but Dumkins and Fodder remained unconquered. Did an elderly gentleman 
essay to stop the progress of the ball, it rolled between his legs or slipped between 
his fingers. Did a slim gentleman try to catch it, it struck him on the nose, and 
bounded pleasantly off with redoubled violence, while the slim gentleman’s 
eyes filled with water, and his form writhed with anguish. Was it thrown 
straight up to the wicket, Dumkins had reached it before the ball. In short, 
when Dumkins was caught out, and Fodder stumped out, All-Muggleton had 
notched some fifty-four, while the score of the Dingley Dellers was as blank as 
their faces. The advantage was too great to be recovered. In vain did the 
eager Luffey, and the enthusiastic Stinggles, do all that skill and experience 
coaid suggest, to regain the ground Dingley Dell had lost in the contest ; — it was 
of no avail ; and in an early period of the winning game Dingley Dell gave in, 
and allowed the superior prowess of All-Muggleton. 

The stranger, meanwhile, had been eating, drinking, and talking, without 
cessation. At every good stroke he expressed his satisfaction and approval of 
the player in a most condescending and patronising manner, which could not fail 
to have been highly gratifying to the party concerned ; while at every bad attempt 
at a catch, and every failure to stop the ball, he launched his personal displeasure 
at the head of the devoted individual in such denunciations — as “Ah, ah I — 
stupid ” — “ Now, butter-fingers ” — “ Muff” — “ Humbug” — and so forth — ejacu- 
lations which seemed to establish him in the opinion of all around, as a most 


58 


The Pickwick Clul, 


excellent and undeniable judge of the whole art and mystery of the noble game 
of cricket. 

“ Capital game— well played — some strokes admirable,” said the stranger, as 
Doth sides crowded into the tent, at the conclusion of the game. 

“ You have played it, sir J ” inquired Mr. Wardle, who had been much amused 
by his loquacity. 

* “ Played it ! Think I have — thousands of times — not here — West Indies — 
exciting thing — hot work — very.” 

“ It must be rather a warm pursuit in such a climate,” obseiwed Mr. Pick- 
wick.” 

“ Warm ! — red hot — scorching — glowing. Played a match once — single wicket 
— friend the Colonel — Sir Thomas Blazo — who should get the gieatest number of 
runs. — Won the toss — first innings — seven o’clock a.m. — six natives to look out 
— went in ; kept in — heat intense — natives all fainted — taken away — fresh half- 
dozen ordered — fainted also — Blazo bowling — supported by two natives — couldn’t 
bowl me out — fainted too — cleared away the Colonel — wouldn’t give in — faithful 
attendant — Quanko Samba — last man left — sun so hot, bat in blisters, ball 
scorched brown — five hundred and seventy runs — rather exhausted — Quanlco 
mustered up last remaining strength — bowled me out — had a bath, and went oui 
to dinner.” 

“ And what became of what’s-his-narae, sir }" inquired an old gentleman. 

“ Blazo } ” 

“ No — the other gentleman.” 

“ Quanko Samba ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Poor Quanko — never recovered it — bowled on, on my account — bowled off, 
on his own — died, sir.” Here the stranger buried his countenance in a brown 
)ug, but wheiher to hide his emotion or imbibe its contents, we cannot distinctly 
affirm. We only know that he paused suddenly, drew a long and deep breath, 
and looked anxiously on, as two of the principal members of the Dingley Dell club 
approached Mr. Pickwick, and said — 

“ We are about to partake of a plain dinner at the Blue Lion, sir ; we hope 
/ou and your friends will join us.” 

“ Of course,” said Mr. Wardle, “ among our friends we include Mr. ;” 

dind he looked towards the stranger. 

“Jingle,” said that versatile gentleman, taking the hint at once. “ Tingle— 
Mfred Jingle, Esq., of No Hall, Nowhere.” 

“ I shall be very happy, I am sure,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ So shall I,” said Mr. Alfred Jingle, drawing one arm through Mr. Pickwick’s, 
md another through Mr. Wardle’s, as he whispered confidentially in the ear of 
Jie former gentleman : — 

“ Devilish good dinner— cold, but capital— peeped into the room this morning 
—fowls and pies, and all that sort of thing— pleasant fellows these— well behaved, 
too — veiy.” 

There being no further preliminaries to arrange, the company straggled into the 
town in little knots of twos and threes ; and within a quarter of an hour were all 
seated in the great room of the Blue Lion Inn, Muggleton— Mr. Dumkins acting 
IS chairman, and Mr. Luffey officiating as vice. 

There was a vast deal of talking and rattling of knives and forks, and plates : a 
great running about of three ponderous headed waiters, and a ranid disappear- 
ance of the substantial viands on the table ; to each and eveiy of which item ol 
confusion, the facetious Mr. Jingle lent the aid of half-a-dozen ordinary men at 
Ica^t. When everybody had eaten as much as possible, the cloth was removed, 


59 


7 he Anglo-Saxon Propensity. 

bottles, glasses, and dessert were placed on the table ; an^ the waiters withdrew 
to “clear away,” or in other words, to appropriate to their own private use and 
emolument whatever remnants of the eatables and drinkables they could contrive 
to lay their hands on. 

Amidst the general hum of mirth and conversation that ensued, there was a 
little man with a puffy Say-nothing-to-me,-or-I’ll-contradict-you sort of coun- 
tenance, who remained very quiet ; occasionally looking round him when the 
conversation slackened, as if he contemplated putting in something very weighty ; 
and now and then bursting into a short cough of inexpressible grandeur. At 
length, during a moment of comparative silence, the little man called out in a 
very loud, solemn voice — 

“ Mr. Luffey ! ” 

Everybody was hushed into a profound stillness as the individual addressed, 
replied — 

“ Sir ! ” 

“ I wish to address a few words to you, sir, if you will entreat the gentlemen to 
fill their glasses.” 

Mr. Jingle uttered a patronising “hear, hear,” which was responded to by the 
remainder of the company : and the glasses having been filled the Vice-President 
assumed an air of wisdom in a state of profound attention ; and said — 

“ Mr. Staple.” 

“ Sir,” said the little man, rising, “ I wish to address what I have to say to you 
and not to our worthy chairman, because our worthy chairman is in some measure 
— I may say in a great degree — the subject of what I have to say, or I may say 
to — to — ” 

“ State,” suggested Mr. Jingle. 

— “Yes, to state,” said the little man, “I thank my honourable friend, if he 
will allow me to call him so — (four hears, and one certainly from Mr. Jingle) — for 
the suggestion. Sir, I am a Deller — a Dingley Deller (cheers). I cannot lay 
claim to the honour of forming an item in the population of Muggleton ; nor, sir, 
•I will frankly admit, do I covet that honour : and I will tell you why, sir — (hear) ; 
to Muggleton I will readily concede all those honours and distinctions to which it 
can fairly lay claim — they are too numerous and too well known to require aid or 
recapitulation from me. But, sir, while we remember that Muggleton has given 
birth to a Dumkins and a Podder, let us never forget that Dingley Dell can boast 
a Luffey and a Struggles. (Vociferous cheering.) Let me not be considered as 
wishing to detract from the merits of the former gentlemen. Sir, I envy them 
the luxury of their own feelings on this occasion. (Cheers). Every gentleman 
who hears me, is probably acquainted with the reply made by an individual, who 
— to use an ordinary figure of speech — ‘hung out ’in a tub, to the emperor 
Alexander : — ‘ If I were not Diogenes,’ said he, ‘I would be Alexander.’ I can 
well imagine these gentlemen to say, ‘ If I wxre not Dumkins I would be Luffoy; 
if I were not Podder I would be Struggles.’ (Enthusiasm.) But, gentlemen of 
Muggleton, is it in cricket alone that your fellow-townsmen stand pre-eminent } 
Have you never heard of Dumkins and determination ? Have you never been 
taught to associate Podder with property ? (Great applause.) Have you never, 
when struggling for your rights, your liberties, and your privileges, been reduced, 
if only for an instant, to misgiving and despair } And when you have been thus 
depressed, has rot the name of Dumkins laid afresh within your breast the fire 
which had just gone out ; and has not a word from that man, lighted it again as 
brightly as if it had never expired.? (Great cheering.) Gentlemen, I beg to 
surround with a rich halo of enthusiastic cheering the united names of ' Dumkins 
and Podder.’ ” 


6o 


The Pickwick Club, 


Here the little man ceased, and here the company commenced a raising ol 
voices, and thumping of tables, which lasted with little intermission during the 
remainder of the evening. Other toasts were drunk. Mr. Lufley and Mr, 
Struggles, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Jingle, were, each in his turn, the subject of 
unqualified eulogium ; and each in due course returned thanks for the honour. 

Enthusiastic as we are in the noble cause to which we have devoted ourselves, 
we should have felt a sensation of pride which we cannot express, and a con- 
sciousness of having done something to merit immortality of which we are now 
deprived, could we have laid the faintest outline of these addresses before our 
ardent readers. Mr. Snodgrass, as usual, took a great mass of notes, which 
would no doubt have afforded most useful and valuable information, had not the 
burning eloquence of the words or the feverish influence of the wine made that 
gentleman’s hand so extremely unsteady, as to render his writing nearly unintelli- 
gible, and his style wholly so. By dint of patient investigation, we have been 
enabled to trace some characters bearing a faint resemblance to the names of the 
speakers ; and we can also discern an entry of a song (supposed to have been 
sung by Mr. Jingle), in which the words “bowl” “sparkling” “ruby” “bright,” 
and “wine” are frequently repeated at short intervals. We fancy too, that we can 
discern at the very end of the notes, some indistinct reference to “ broiled bones; ” 
and then the words “ cold ” “ without ” occur : but as any hypothesis we could 
found upon them must necessarily rest upon mere conjecture, we are not disposed 
to indulge in any of the speculations to which they may give rise. 

We will therefore return to Mr. Tupman ; merely adding that within some few 
minutes before twelve o’clock that night, the convocation of worthies of Dingley 
Dell and Muggleton were heard to sing, with great feeling and emphasis, the 
beautiful and pathetic national air of 

We won’t go home ’till morning. 

We won’t go home ’till morning, 

We won't go home ’till morning, 

’Till daylight doth appear. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

STRONGLY ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE POSITION, THAT THE COURSE OF TRUE 
LOVE IS NOT A RAILWAY. 

The quiet seclusion of Dingley Dell, the presence of so many of the gentler 
sex, and the solicitude and anxiety they evinced in his behalf, were all favourable 
to the growth and development of those softer feelings which nature had im- 
planted deep in the bosom of Mr. Tracy Tupman, and which now appeared 
destined to centre in one lovely object. The young ladies were pretty their 
manners winning, their dispositions unexceptionable ; but there was a dignity in 
the air, a touch-me-not-ishness in the walk, a majesty in the eye of the spinster 
aunt to which at their time of life, they could lay no claim, which distinguished 
her from any female on whom Mr. Tupman had ever gazed. That there was 
something kindred in their nature, something congenial in their souls, somethin^ 
mystenously sympathetic in their bosoms, was evident. Her name was the first 
that rose to Mr. Tupman’s lips as he lay wounded on the grass ; and her hysteric 
.aughter was the first sound that fell upon his ear when he was supported to the 
house. Bu‘ had her agitation arisen from an amiable and feminine sensibility 


Mr. Tupman declares. 6i 

which would have been equally irrepressible in any case ; or had it been called 
forth oy a more ardent and passionate feeling, which he, of all men living, could 
alone awaken? These were the doubts which racked his brain as he lay extended 
on the sofa : these were the doubts which he detennined should be at once and 
for ever resolved. 

It was evenittg. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle ; the 
deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair ; the snoring of the fat boy, penetrated 
in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen ; the buxom servants 
w^ere lounging at the side-door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour, and the 
delights of a flirtation, on first principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached 
to the farm ; and there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for 
none, and dreaming only of themselves ; there they sat, in short, like a pair of 
carefully-folded kid-gloves — bound up in each other. 

“ I have forgotten my flowers,” said the spinster aunt. 

“Water them now,” said Mr. Tupman in accents of persuasion. 

“You will take cold in the evening air,” urged the spinster aunt, affection- 
ately. 

“ No, no,” said Mr. Tupman rising ; “ it will do me good. Let me accompany 
you.” 

The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was 
placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden. 

There was a bower at the further end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and creeping 
plants — one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accom- 
modation of spiders. 

The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner, and was 
about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her to a seat 
beside him. 

“ Miss Wardle ! ” said he. 

The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found their 
way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant’s rattle. 

“ Miss Wardle,” said Mr. Tupman, “ you are an angel.” 

“ Mr. Tupman ! ” exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot itself. 

“Nay,” said the eloquent Pickwickian — “ I know it but too well.” 

“All women are angels, they say,” murmured the lady, playfully. 

“ Then what caxi you be ; or to what, without presumption, can I compare you ? ” 
replied Mr. Tupman. “ Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you ? 
Where eRe could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty ? 

Where else could I seek to Oh !” Here Mr. Tupman paused, and pressed the 

hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot. 

The lady turned aside her head. “Men are such deceivers,” she softly 
whispered. 

“ They are, they are,” ejaculated Mr. Tupman ; “ but not all men. There lives 
at least one being who can never change — one being who would be content to 
devote his whole existence to your happiness — who lives but in your eyes — who 
breathes but in your smiles — who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you.” 

“ Could such an individual be found,” said the lady 

“ But he craw be found,” said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing. “He is 
found. He is here. Miss Wardle.” And ere the lady was aware of his intention, 
Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet. 

“Mr. Tupman, rise,” said Rachael. 

“ Never ! ” was the valorous reply. “ Oh, Rachael ! ” — He seized her passive 
hand, and the wat ering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his lips. — “ Oh, 
Rachael ! say you love me.” 


62 


The Pickwick Club, 


“ Mr. Tupman,” said the spinster aunt, with averted head — “I can hardly 
speak the words ; but — but — you are not wholly indifferent to me.” 

Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his 
enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are bu/ 
little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always do. He 
jumped up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster aunt, imprinted 
upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of struggling and resist- 
ance, she received so passively, that there is no telling how many more hir. Tup- 
man might have bestowed, if the lady had not given a very unaffected start and 
exclaimed in an affrighted tone — 

“ Mr. Tupman, we are observed ! — we are discovered !” 

Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless, with 
his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the slightest expression 
on his face that the most expert physiognomist could have referred to astonish- 
ment, curiosity, or any other known passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. 
Tupman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him ; and the longer Mr. 
Tupman obseived the utter vacancy of the fat boy’s countenance, the more con- 
vinced he became that he either did not know, or did not understand, anything 
that had been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great 
firmness — 

“ What do you want here, sir ?” 

“ Supper’s ready sir,” was the prompt reply. 

“ Have you just come here, sir } ” inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing look. 

“Just,” replied the fat boy. 

Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again ; but there was not a wink in hi 
eye, or a curve in his face. 

Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the house ' 
the fat boy followed behind. 

“ He knows nothing of what has happened,” he whispered. 

“Nothing,” said the spinster aunt. 

There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle. Mr. 
Tupman turned sharply round. No ; it could not have been the fat boy ; there 
was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole visage. 

“ He must have been fast asleep,” whispered Mr. Tupman. 

“ I have not the least doubt of it,” replied the spinster aunt. 

They both laughed heartily. 

Mr. Tupman was wrong. ' The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep. He 
was awake— wide awake— to what had been going forward. 

The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The old 
lady had gone to bed ; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to Mr. Trundle ; 
the spinster’s attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman ; and 'Emily’s thoughts 
appeared to be engrossed by some distant object— possibly they were with the 
absent Snodgrass. 

Eleven— twelve— one o’clock had stracV .ue gentlemen had not arrived. 
Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid and robbed ? 
Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by which they could be sup- 
posed likely to have travelled home } or should they Hark ! there thev were. 

What could have made them so late } A strange voice, too ! To whom could it 
belong } They rushed into the kitchen whither the truants had repaired, and at 
once obtained rather more than a glimmering ot the real state ol the case. 

Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked completely 
over his left eye, was leaning against the dresser, shaking his head from side to 
Side, ana produ.-ing a constant succession oi the I landest and most benevolent 


63 


Injurious Effects of Salmon. 

smiles without being moved thereunto by any discernible cause or pretence what- 
soever ; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the 
hand of a strange gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship ; Mr. 
Winkle, supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruc- 
tion upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest the propriety 
of his retiring for the night ; and Mr. Snodgi-ass had sunk into a chair, with an 
expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind can 
imagine, portrayed in every lineament of his expressive face. 

“ Is anything the matter ? ” inquired the three ladies. 

“ Nothing the matter,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ We — we’re — all right. — I say, 
•Wardle, we’re all right, an’t we ? ” 

“ I should think so,” replied the jolly host. — “ My dears, here’s my friend, Mr. 
Jingle — Mr. Pickwick’s friend, Mr. Jingle, come ’pon — little visit.” 

“ Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, sir ? ” inquued Emily, with gieat 
anxiety. 

“ Nothing the matter, ma’am,” replied the stranger. “ Cricket dinner — ■ 
glorious party — capital songs — old port — claret — good — very good — wine, ma’am 
— wine.” 

“ It wasn’t the wine,” murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. “ It was 
the salmon.” (Somehow or other, it never zs the wine, in these cases.) 

“ Hadn’t they better go to bed, ma’am ? ” inquired Emma. “ Two of the boys 
will cany the gentlemen up stairs.” 

“ I won’t go to bed,” said Mr. Winkle, firmly. 

“No living boy shall carry me,” said Mr. Pickwick, stoutly ; — and he went on 
smiling as before. 

“ Hurrah ! ” gasped Mr. Winkle, faintly. 

“ Hurrah ! ” echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the 
floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the kitchen. — At this 
humorous feat he laughed outright. 

“ Let’s — have — ’nother — bottle,” cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a veiy loud 
key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his breast ; and, 
muttering his invincible determination not to go to his bed, and a sanguinary 
regret that he had not “ done for old Tupman ” in the morning, he fell fast asleep ; 
in which condition he was borne to his apartment by two young giants under the 
personal superintendence of the fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass 
shortly afterwards confided his own person. Mr. Pickwick accepted the profiered 
arm of Mr. Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever ; and Mr. 
Wardle, after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were 
ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr. Trundle the honour of con- 
veying him up-stairs, and retired, with a very futile attempt to look impressively 
solemn and dignified. 

“ What a shocking scene ! ” said the spinster aunt. 

“ Dis — gusting ! ” ejaculated both the young ladies. 

“ Dreadful — dreadful ! ” said Jingle, looking very grave : he was about a bottle 
and a half ahead of any of his companions. “ Horrid spectacle — very 1 ” 

“ What a nice man ! ” whispered the spinster aunt to Mr. Tupman. 

“ Good-looking, too ! ” whispered Emily Wardle. 

“ Oh, decidedly,” observed the spinster aunt. 

Mr. Tupman thought of the uddow at Rochester: and his mind was troubled. 
The succeeding half-hour’s conversation was not of a nature to calm his perturbed 
spirit. The new nsitor was veiy talkative, and the number of his anecdotes was 
only to be exceeded by the extent of his politeness. Mr. Tupman felt that as 
fingle’s popularity increased he (Tupman) retired furtlier into the shade. Hi» 


64 


The Picktuick Club. 


laughter was forced — ^his merriment feigned ; and when at last he laid his aching 
temples between the sheets, he thought, with horrid delight, on the satisfaction it 
would afford him to have Jingle’s head at that moment between the feather bed 
and the mattress. 

The indefatigable stranger rose betimes next morning, and, although his com- 
panions remained in bed overpowered with the dissipation of the previous night, 
exerted himself most successively to promote the hilarity of the breakfast-table. 
So successful were his efforts, that even the deaf old lady insisted on having one 
or two of his best jokes retailed through the trumpet ; and even she condescended 
to observe to the spinster aunt, that “he” (meaning Jingle) “was an impudent 
young fellow : ” a sentiment in which all her relations then and there present . 
thoroughly coincided. 

It was the old lady’s habit on the fine summer mornings to repair to the arbour 
in which Mr. Tupman had already signalised himself, in form and manner follow- 
ing : first, the fat boy fetched from a peg behind the old lady’s bed-room door, a 
close black satin bonnet, a warm cotton shawl, and a thick stick with a capacious 
handle ; and the old lady having put on the bonnet and shawl at her leisure, would 
lean one hand on the stick and the other on the fat boy’s shoulder, and walk 
leisurely to the arbour, where the fat boy would leave her to enjoy the fresh air for 
the space of half an hour ; at the expiration of which time he would return and 
reconduct her to the house. 

The old lady was veiy precise and very particular ; and as this ceremony had 
been observed for three successive summers without the slightest deviation from 
the accustomed form, she was not a little surprised on this particular morning, to 
see the fat boy, instead of leaving the arbour, walk a few paces out of it, look 
carefully round him in every direction, and return towards her with great stealth 
and an air of the most profound mystery. 

The old lady was timorous — most old ladies are — and her first impression was 
that the bloated lad was about to do her some grievous bodily harm with the view 
of possessing himself of her loose coin. She would have cried for assistance, but 
age and infirmity had long ago deprived her of the power of screaming ; she, 
therefore, watched his motions with feelings of intense terror, which were in no 
degree diminished by his coming close up to her, and shouting in her ear in an 
agitated, and as it seemed to her, a threatening tone — 

“ Missus ! ” 

Now it so happened that Mr. Jingle was walking in the garden close to the 
arbour at this moment. He too heard the shout of “ Missus,” and stopped to 
hear more. There were three reasons for his doing so. In the first place, he was 
idle and curious ; secondly, he was by no means scrupulous ; thirdly, and lastly, 
he was concealed from view by some flowering sluubs. So tliere he stood, and 
there he listened. 

“ Missus ! ” shouted the fat boy. 

“ Well, Joe,” said the trembling old lady. “ I’m sure I have been a good mis- 
tress to you, Joe. You have invariably been treated very kindly. You have never 
had too much to do ; and you have always had enough to eat.” 

This last was an appeal to the fat boy’s most sensitive feelings. He seemed 
touched, as he replied, emphatically — 

“ I knows I has.” 

“ Then what can you want to do now ?” said the old lady, gaining courage. 

“ I wants to make your flesh creep,” replied the boy. 

This sounded like a ve^ bloodthirsty mode of showing one’s gratitude ; and as 
the old lady did not precisely understand the process by which such a result was 
to be attained, all her former horrors returned. 


A Snake in the Grass. 


^5 


“ What do you think I see in this very arbour last night ? ” inquired the boy. 

“ Bless us ! What ? ” exclaimed the old lady, alarmed at the solemn manner of 
the corpulent youth. 

“ The sti'ange gentleman — him as had his arm hurt — a kissin’ and huggin’ ** 

“ Who, Joe ? None of the sei-vants, I hope.” 

“ VVorser than that,” roared the fat boy, in the old lady’s ear. 

“ Not one of my grand-da’aters ? ” 

“ Worser than that.” 

“ Worse than that, Joe ! ” said the old lady, who had thought this the extreme 
limit of human atrocity. “ Who was it, Joe ? I insist upon knowing.” 

The fat boy looked cautiously round, and having concluded his survey, shouted 
in the old lady’s ear ; 

“ Miss Rachael.” 

“ What ! ” said the old lady, in a shrill tone. “ Speak louder.” 

“ Miss Rachael,” roared the fat boy. 

“ My da’ater ! ” 

The train of nods which the fat boy gave by way of assent, communicated a 
blanc-mange like motion to his fat cheeks. 

“ And she suffered him ! ” exclaimed the old lady. 

A grin stole over the fat boy’s features as he said : 

“ I see her a kissin’ of him agin.” 

If Mr. Jingle, from his place of concealment, could have beheld the expression 
which the old lady’s face assumed at this communication, the probability is that a 
sudden burst of laughter would have betrayed his close vicinity to the summer- 
house. He listened attentively. Fragments of angry sentences such as, “Without 
my pel-mission i ” — “ At her time of life ” — “ Miserable old ’ooman like me ” — 
“ Might have waited till I was dead,” and so forth, reached his ears ; and then he 
heard the heels of tlie fat boy’s boots crunching the gravel, as he retired and left 
the old lady alone. 

It was a remarkable coincidence perhaps, but it was nevertheless a fact, that 
^Ir. Jingle within five minutes after his an-ival at Manor Farm on the preceding 
night, had inwardly resolved to lay siege to the heart of the spinster aunt, without 
delay. He had observation enough to see, that his off-hand manner was by no 
means disagreeable to the fair object of his attack ; and he had more than a strong 
suspicion that she possessed that most desirable of all requisites, a small indepen- 
dence. The imperative necessity of ousting his rival by some means or other, 
flashed quickly upon him, and he immediately resolved to adopt certain proceed- 
ings tending to that end and object, without a moment’s delay. Fielding tells us 
that man is fire, and woman tow, and the Prince of Darkness sets a light to ’em. 
Mr. Jingle knew that young men, to spinster aunts, are as lighted gas to gun- 
powder, and he determined to essay the effect of an explosion without loss of time. 

Full of reflections upon this important decision, he crept from his place of con- 
cealment, and, under cover of the shrubs before mentioned, approached the house. 
Fortune seemed determined to favour his design. Mr. Tupman and the rest of 
the gentlemen left the garden by the side gate just as he obtained a view of it ; 
and the young ladies, he knew, had walked out alone, soon after breakfast. The 
coast was clear. 

The breakfast-parlour door was partially open. He peeped in. The spinster 
aunt was knitting. He coughed ; she looked up and smiled. Hesitation formed 
no part of Mr. Alfred Jingle’s character. He laid his finger on his lips myste- 
riously, walked in, and closed the door. 

“ Miss Wardle,” said Mr. Jingle, with affected earnestness, “ forgive intrusion 
— bhort acquaintance — no time for ceremony — all discovered.” 

K 


66 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Sir! ” said the spinster aunt, rather astonished by the unexpected apparition 
and somewhat doubtful of Mr. Jingle’s sanity. 

“ Hush I ” said Mr. Jingle, in a stage whisper; — “ large boy — dumpling face — 
round eyes — ^rascal ! ” Here he shook his head expressively, and the spinster 
aunt trembled with agitation. 

“I presume you allude to Joseph, sir?” said the lady, making an effort to 
appear composed. 

“ Yes, ma’am — damn that Joe I — treacherous dog, Joe — told the old lady — old 
lady furious — ^wild — raving — arbour — Tupman — kissing and hugging — all that sort 
of thing — eh, ma’am — eh ? ” 

“ Mr. Jingle,” said the spinster aunt, “ if you come here, sir, to insult me ” 

“ Not at all — by no means,” replied the unabashed Mr. Jingle ; — “ overheard the 
tale — came to warn you of your danger — tender my services — prevent the hubbub. 
Never mind — think it an insult — leave the room ” — and he turned, as if to carry 
the threat into execution. 

“ What shall I do 1 ” said the poor spinster, bursting into tears. “ My brother 
will be furious.” 

“ Of course he will,” said Mr. Jingle pausing — “ outrageous.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Jingle, what can I say I ” exclaimed the spinster aunt, in another 
flood of despair. 

“ Say he dreamt it,” replied Mr. Jingle, coolly. 

A ray of comfort darted across the mind of the spinster aunt at this suggestion. 
Mr. Jingle perceived it, and followed up his advantage. 

“ Pooh, pooh I — nothing more easy — blackguard boy — lovely woman — fat boy 
horsewhipped — you believed — end of the matter — all comfortable.” 

Whether the probability of escaping from the consequences of this ill-timed 
discovery was delightful to the spinster’s feelings, or whether the hearing herself 
described as a “ lovely woman ” softened the asperity of her grief, we know not. 
She blushed slightly, and cast a grateful look on Mr. Jingle. 

That insinuating gentleman sighed deeply, fixed his eyes on the spinster aunt’s 
face for a couple of minutes, started melo-dramatically, and suddenly withdrew 
them. 


“ You seem unhappy, Mr. Jingle,” said the lady, in a plaintive voice. “ May 
I show my gratitude for your kind interference, by inquiring into the cause, with a 
view, if possible, to its removal ? ” 

‘‘Ha!” exclaimed Mr. Jingle, with another start — “removal! remove my 
unhappiness, and your love bestowed upon a man who is insensible to the blessing 
who even now contemplates a design upon the affections of the niece of the 
creature who but no ; he is my friend ; I will not expose his vices. Miss Wardle 
farewell . At the conclusion of this address, the most consecutive he was 
ever known to utter, Mr. Jingle applied to his eyes the remnant of a handkerchief 
before noticed, and turned towards the door. 

“ Stay, Mr. Jingle ! ” said the spinster aunt emphatically. “ You have made 
an allusion to Mr. Tupman — explain it.” 

“ Never ! ” exclaimed Jingle, with a professional {z.e. theatrical) air. “ Never > ” 
and, byway of showing that he had no desire to be questioned further, he drew a 
chair close to that of the spinster aunt and sat down. 

“ Mr. Jingle,” said the aunt, “ I entreat— I implore you, if there is any dread- 
ful mystery connected with Mr. Tupman, reveal it,” 

“ Can I,” said Mr. Jingle, fixing his eyes on the aunt’s face— “ Can I see- 
lovely creature sacrificed at the shrine — heartless avarice ! ” He appeared to be 
struggling with various conflicting emotions for a few seconds, and then said in a 
low deep voice — 


The Snake in Action. 


f>7 


“ Tupman only wants your money.” 

“ The wretch ! ” exclaimed the spinster, with energetic indignation. (Mr. 
Jingle’s doubts were resolved. She had money). 

“ More than that,” said Jingle — “ loves another.” 

“ Another ! ” ejaculated the spinster. “ Who ? ” 

“ Short girl — black eyes — niece Emily.” 

There w as a pause. 

Now, if there were one individual in the whole world, of whom the spinster 
aunt entertained a mortal and deeply-rooted jealousy, it was this identical niece. 
The colour rushed over her face and neck, and she tossed her head in silence with 
an air of ineffable contempt. At last, biting her thin lips, and bri dling up, sh» 
said — 

“ It can’t be. I won’t believe it.” 

“ Watch ’em,” said Jingle. 

“ I will,” said the aunt. 

“ Watch his looks.” 

“ I will.” 

“ His whispers.” 

“ I will.” 

“ He’ll sit next her at table.” 

“ Let him.” 

“ He’ll flatter her.” 

“ Let him.” 

“ He’ll pay her every possible attention.” 

“ Let him.” 

And he’ll cut you.” 

“Cut me!’* screamed the spinster aunt. ** ffe cut me; — wt’ll he I” and she 
trembled with rage and disappointment. 

“ You will convince yourself ? ” said Jingle. 

“ I will.” 

“ You’ll show your spirit ? ” 

“ I will.” 

“ You’ll not have him afterwards ? ** 

“ Never.” 

“ You’ll take somebody else ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“You shall.” 

Mr. Jingle fell on his knees, remained thereupon for five minutes thereafter : 
and rose the accepted lover of the spinster aunt : conditionally upon Mr. Tup- 
man’s perjury being made clear and manifest. 

The burden of proof lay with Mr. Alfred Jingle ; and he produced his evidence 
that very day at dinner. The spinster aunt could hardly believe her eyes Mr. 
Tracy Tupman was established at Emily’s side, ogling, whispering, and smiling, 
in opposition to Mr. Snodgrass. Not a word, not a look, not a glance, did he 
bestow upon his heart’s pride of the evening before. 

“ Damn that boy ! ” thought old Mr. Wardle to himself. — He had heard the 
story from his mother. “ Damn that boy ! He must have been asleep. It’s all 
imagination.” 

“ Traitor !” thought the spinster aunt. “ Dear Mr. Jingle was not deceiving 
me. Ugh ! how I hate the wretch ! ” 

The following conversation may serve to explain to our readers this apparently 
unaccountable alteration of deportment on the part of Mr. Tracy Tupman. 

The time was evening ; the scene the garden. There were two figures walking 


68 


The Pickwick Club, 


in a side path ; one was rather short and stout ; the other rather tall and slim. 
They were Mr. Tupman and Mr. Jingle. The stout figure commenced th- 
dialogue. 

“ How did I do it ?” he inquired. 

“ Splendid — capital — couldn’t act better myself— you must repeat the part to- 
morrow — every evening, till further notice.” 

“ Does Rachael still wish it ?” 

“Of course — she don’t like it — but must be done — avert suspicion — afraid of 
her brother — says there’s no help for it — only a few days more — when old folks 
blinded — crown your happiness.” 

“ Any message ? ” 

“ Love — best love — kindest regards — unalterable afiection. Can I say anything 
for you ? ” 

“ My dear fellow,” replied the unsuspicious Mr. Tupman, fervently grasping 
his “friend’s ” hand — “dairy my best love — say how hard I find it to dissemble 
— say anything that’s kind : but add how sensible I am of the necessity of the 
suggestion she made to me, through you, this morning. Say I applaud her 
wisdom and admire her discretion.” 

“ I will. Anything more } ” 

“Nothing; only add how ardently I long for the time when I may call her 
mine, and all dissimulation may be unnecessary.” 

“ Certainly, certainly. Anything more ? ” 

“Oh, my friend!” said poor Mr. Tupman, again gasping the hand of his 
companion, “ receive my warmest thanks for your disinterested kindness ; and 
forgive me if I have ever, even in thought, done you the injustice of supposing 
that you could stand in my way. My dear friend, can I ever repay you ?” 

“ Don’t talk of it,” replied Mr. Jingle. He stopped short, as if suddenly 
recollecting something, and said — “By-the-bye — can’t spare ten pounds, can you? 
— ^vciy particular purpose — pay you in three days.” 

“ I dare say I can,” replied Mr. Tupman, in the fulness of his heart. “ Three 
days, you say ?” 

“ Only three days — all over then — no more difficulties.” 

Mr. Tupman counted the money into his companion’s hand, and he dropped it 
piece by piece into his pocket, as tliey walked towards the house. 

“ Be careful,” said Mr. Jingle — “ not a look.” 

“ Not a wink,” said Mr. Tupman. 

“ Not a syllable.” 

“Not a whisper.” 

“ All your attentions to the niece— rather rude, than otherwise, to the aunt- 
only way of deceiving the old ones.” 

“ I’ll take care,” said Mr. Tupman aloud. 

“And i’ll take care,” said Mr. Jingle internally; and they entered the honse. 

The scene of that afternoon was repeated that evening, and on the three aftei- 
noons and evenings next ensuing. On the fourth, the host was in high spirits, 
for he had satisfied himself that there was no giound for the charge against Mr. 
Tupman. So was Mr. Tupman, for Mr. Jingle had told him that his afi'air would 
soon be brought to a crisis. So was Mr. Pickwick, for he was seldom otherwise. 
So was not Mr. Snodgrass, for he had grown jealous of Mr. Tupman. So was 
the old lady, for she had been winning at whist. So were Mr. Jingle and Miss 
Wardle, for reasons of sufficient importance in this eventful history to be narrated 
in another chapter. 


Temporary Insanity of Mr. Tupman. 


69 


CHAPTER IX. 

A DISCOVERY AND A CHASE. 

The supper was ready laid, the chairs were drawn round the table, bottles, 
jugs, and gla/ses were ananged upon the sideboard, and everything betokened the 
approach of the most convivial period in the whole four-and-twenty hours. 

“ Wliere’s Rachael ?” said Mr. Wardle. 

“ Ay, and Jingle ? ” added IMr. Pickwick. 

“ Dear me,” said the host, “I wonder I haven’t missed him before. Why, I 
don’t think I’ve heard his voice for two hours at least. Emily, my dear, ring 
the bell.” • 

The bell was rung, and the fat boy appeared. 

“ Where’s Miss Rachael } ” He couldn’t say. 

“ Where’s Mr. Jingle, then } ” He didn’t know. 

Everybody looked sinprised. It was late — past eleven o’clock. Mr. Tupman 
laughed in his sleeve. They were loitering somewhere, talking about hurt. Ha, 
ha ! capital notion that — funny. 

“ Never mind,” said Wardle, after a short pause, “ tliey’ll turn up presently, I 
dare say. I never wait supper for anybody.” 

“ Excellent rule, that,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ admirable.” 

“ Pray, sit down,” said the host. 

“Certainly,” said Mr. Pickwick : and down they sat. 

There was a gigantic round of cold beef on the table, and Mr. Pickwick was 
supplied with a plentiful portion of it. He had raised his fork to his lips, and 
\vas on the very point of opening his mouth for the reception of a piece of beef, 
when the hum of many voices suddenly arose in the kitchen. He paused, and 
laid down his fork. Mr. Wardle paused too, and insensibly released his hold ot 
the carving-knife, which remained inserted in the beef. He looked at Mr. Pick- 
wick. Mr. Pickwick looked at him. 

Heavy footsteps were heard in the passage ; the parlour door was suddenly 
burst open ; and the man who had cleaned Mr. Pickwick’s boots on his first 
arrival, rushed into the room, followed by the fat boy, and all the domestics* 

“ Wliat the de\'irs the meaning of this } ” exclaimed the host. 

“ The kitchen chimney ain’t a-fire, is it, Emma } ” inquired the old lady. 

“ Lor grandma ! No,” screamed both the young ladies. 

“ ^Vllat’s the matter ? ” roared the master of the house. 

The man gasped for breath, and faintly ejaculated — 

“ They ha’ gone, Mas’r ! — gone right clean off, sir ! ” (At this juncture Mr. 
Tupman was obsej-ved to lay down his knife and fork, and to turn very pale.) 

“ Who’s gone } ” said Mr. Wardle, fiercely. 

“ Mus’r Jingle and Miss Rachael, in a po’-chay, from Blue Lion, Muggleton. 
I was there ; but I couldn’t stop ’em ; so I run off to tell’ee.” 

“I paid his expenses!” said Mr. Tupman, jumping up frantically. “He’s 
got ten pounds of mine ! — stop him ! — he’s swindled me ! — I won’t bear it ! — I’ll 
have justice, Pickwick I — I won’t stand it ! ” and with sundry incoherent exclama- 
tions of the like nature, the unhappy gentleman spun round and round the apart- 
ment, in a transport of frenzy. 

“ Lord preserve us I ” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, eyeing the extraordinary 
gestures of his friend with terrified surprise. “He’s gone mad! Wliat shaU 
^ e do ! ” 

“ Do ! ” said the stout old host, who regarded only the last words of the sen- 


70 


The Pickwick Clul\ 


tence. ‘'Put the horse in the gig ! I’ll get a chaise at the Lion, and follow ’em 
instantly. Where ” — he exclaimed, as the man ran out to execute the comn^* :siott 
• — Where’s that villain, Joe } ” 

“ Here I am ; but I han’t a willin,” replied a voice. It was the fat boy’s. 

“Let me get at him, Pickwick,” cried Wardle, as he rushed a! the ill-starred 
youth. “ He was bribed by that scoundrel. Jingle, to put me on a wrong scent, 
by telling a cock-and-a-bull story of my sister and your friend Tupman ! ” (Here 
Mr. Tupman sunk into a chair.) “ Let me get at him ! ” 

“Don’t let him!” screamed all the women, above whose exclamations the 
blubbering of the fat boy was distinctly audible. 

“I won’t be held!” cried the old man. “Mr. Winkle, take your hands off. 
Mr. Pickwick, let me go, sir ! ” 

It was a beautiful sight, in that moment of tuiTnoil and confusion, to behold the 
placid and philosophical expression of Mr. Pickwick’s face, albeit somewhat 
flushed with exertion, as he stood with his arms firmly clasped round the extensive 
waisi of their corpulent host, thus restraining the impetuosity of his passion, 
while the fat boy was scratched, and pulled, and pushed from the room by all the 
females congiegated therein. He had no sooner released his hold, than the man 
entered to announce that the gig was ready, 

“ Don’t let him go alone ! ” screamed the females. “ He’ll kill somebody ! ” 

“I’ll go with him,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“You’re a good fellow, Pickwick,” said the host, grasping his hand. “ Emma, 
give Mr. Pickwick a shawl to tie round his neck — make haste. Look after your 
grandmother, girls ; she has fainted away. Now then, are you ready.?” 

Mr. Pickwick’s mouth and chin having been hastily enveloped in a large shawl : 
his hat having been put on his head, and his gieat coat thrown over his arm, he 
replied in the affirmative. 

They jumped into the gig. “ Give her her head, Tom,” cried the host ; and 
away they went, down the narrow lanes : jolting in and out of the cart-ruts, and 
bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces every 
moment. 

“ How much are they a-head ?” shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door 
of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was. 

“Not above three-quarters of an hour,” was everybody’s reply. 

“ Chaise and four directly ! — out with ’em ! Put up the gig afterwards.” 

“Now, boys!” cried the landlord — “chaise and four out — make haste — look 
alive there ! ” 

Away ran the hostlers, and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men ran 
to and fro ; the horses’ hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the yard ; the 
chaise rumbled as it was diawn out of the coach-house ; and all was noise and 
bustle. 

“ Now then ! — is that chaise coming out to-night ?” cried Wardle. 

“ Coming down the yard now, sir,” replied the hostler. 

Out came the chaise — in went the horses — on sprung the boys — in got the 
travellers. o j 


“ Mind— the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour I” shouted Wardle. 

“ Ofi with you !” 

The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered, and 
away they went, fast and furiously. 

“Pretty situation,” thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment’s time 
for reflection. “ Pretty situation for the General Chairman of the Pickwick Club, 
chaise— strange horses— fifteen miles an hour— and twelve o’clock at night ! ’’ 
ror the first three or fom- miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentle* 


A Stumbling-Block. yj 

men, eav'h being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any obser- 
vations to his companion. When they had gone over that much ground, however, 
and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in really good 
style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion, 
to remain any longer perfectly mute. 

“ We’re sure to catch them, I think,” said he. 

“ Hope so,” replied his companion. 

“ Fine night,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was shining 
brightly. 

“ So much the worse,” returned Wardle ; “for they’ll have had all the advan- 
tage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it. It will have 
gone down in another hour.” 

“ It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won’t it ?” inquired 
Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I dare say it will,” replied his friend drily. 

Mr. Pickwick’s temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he reflected 
upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had so thought- 
lessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on the leader. 

“ Yo — yo — yo — yo — yoe,” went the first boy. 

“Yo — yo — yo — yoe !” went the second. 

“ Yo — yo — yo — yoe ! ” chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his 
head and half his body out of the coach window. 

“ Yo — yo — yo — yoe !” shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, 
though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the 
yo — yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped. 

“ Wliat’s the matter?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ There’s a gate here,” replied old Wardle. “We shall hear something of the 
fugitives.” 

After a lapse -^f five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an 
old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened 
the gate. 

“ How long ' 3 it since a post-chaise went through here ? ” inquired Mr. Wardle. 

“ How long 
“Ah!” 

“ Why, I dc n’t rightly know. It wom’t a long time ago, nor it wom’t a short 
time ago - y between the two, perhaps.” 

“ Ha.' ary f.haise been by at all ?” 

“ Oh yrs, there’s been a shay by.” 

“ Hew long ago, my friend,” intei-posed Mr. Pickwick, “ an hour ?’* 

“ Ah, I daresay it might be,” replied the man. 

“ Or two hours ?” inquired the post-boy on the wheeler. 

“ Well, I shouldn’t wonder if it was,” returned the old man doubtfully. 

“ Drive on, boys,” cried the testy old gentleman : “ don’t waste any more time 
with that old idiot ! ” 

“ Idiot!” exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle of 
the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly diminished 
in the increasing distance. “No — not much o’ that either; you’ve lost ten 
minutes here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter all. If every man on the 
line as has a guinea give him, earns it half as well, you won’t catch t’other shay 
this side Mich’lmas, old short-and-fat.” And with another prolonged grin, the 
old man closed the gate, re-entered his house, and bolted the door after him. 

Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards the 
exclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, wa.s rapidly on the 


7a 


The Pickivick Club. 


wane ; large tiers of dark heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading 
the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass over head ; and large 
drops of rain which pattered every now and then against the windows of the 
chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. 
The wind, too, which was directly against them, swept in furious gusts down the 
narrow road, and howled dismally through the trees which sldrted the pathway. 
Mr. Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into 
the comer of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only 
awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler’s bell, and a 
loud cry of “ Horses on directly ! ” 

But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such mysterious 
soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them. The hostler had some* 
how or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even when that was found, two 
sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole process 
of harnessing had to be gone through afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, 
these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to the pursuit at 
once, but old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted ; and he laid about him 
with such hearty good-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that ; strapping a 
buckle here, and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much 
shorter time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many difficulties. 

They resumed their journey ; and certainly the prospect before them was by no 
means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was dark, the 
wind high, and the rain pouring in tonents. It was impossible to make any 
great way against such obstacles united ; it was hard upon one o’clock already ; 
and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the stage. Here, 
however, an object presented itself, which rekindled their hopes, and re-animated 
their drooping spirits. 

“ When did this chaise come in ? ” cried old Wardle, leaping out of his ow 
vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which v/as standing in the 
yard. 

“Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir; ” replied the hostler, to whom the question 
was addressed. 

“ Lady and gentleman ? ” inquired Wardle, almost breathless with impatience. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Tall gentleman— dress coat— long legs— thin body ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” ^ 

“ Elderly lady— thin face— rather skinny— eh ? ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ By heavens, it s the couple, Pickwick,” exclaimed the old gentleman. 

“ Would have been here before,” said the hostler, “ but they broke a trace.” 

It is ! said Wardle, “ it is, by Jove ! Chaise and four instantly ! We shall 
catch them yet, before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece, boys— be 
alive there— bustle about— there’s good fellows.” r > 7 

And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down the 
L VI ""'t i f f ^ excitement which communicated itself 

VdTT? influence of which, that gentleman got 

ffimself into complicated entanglements ^vith harness, and mixed up with horles 
chaises, in the most surprising manner, firmly believing that by so 
journey i^^tenally loiwarding the preparations for their resuming their 

^^to the chaise, pulling up 

And “Come along I Make haste!” 

And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what be wns about, he felt himself 


Really moving nou\ 73 

♦orced in at tLe other door, by one pull from the old gentleman, and one push 
from the hostler ; and off they were again. 

“Ah! we are moving now,” said the old gentleman exultingly. They were 
indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant collisions 
either with the hard wood-work of the chaise, or the body of his companion. 

“ Hold up I ” said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. Pickwick dived head fore- 
most into his capacious waistcoat. 

“ I never did feel such a jolting in my life,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Never mind,” replied his companion, “ it will soon be over. Steady, steady.” 

Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own comer, as firmly as he could ; and 
on whirled the chaise faster than ever. 

They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who had 
bqen looking out of the window for two or three minutes, suddenly drew in his 
face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless eagerness — 

“ Here they are I ” 

Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes : there was a chaise and 
four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop. 

“ Go on, go on,” almost shrieked the old gentleman. “ Two guineas a-piece, 
boys — don’t let ’em gain on us — keep it up — keep it up.” 

The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed ; and those in 
Mr. Wardle’s galloped furiously behind them. 

“ I see his head,” exclaimed the choleric old man, “ Damme, I see his head.” 

“ So do I,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ that’s he.” 

Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely 
coated with the mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the 
window of his chaise ; and the motion of his ann, which he was waving violently 
towards the postilions, denoted that he was encouraging them to increased 
exertion. 

The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past them 
with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which they tore along. 
They were close by the side of the first chaise. Jingle’s voice could be plainly 
heard, even above the din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle 
foamed with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains by the 
dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the object of his indignation ; 
but Mr. Jingle only answered with a contemptuous smile, and replied to his 
menaces % a shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the incieased application 
of whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind. 

Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with 
shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forsvard against 
the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump — a loud crash — away rolled a 
wheel, and over went the chaise. 

After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing but 
ihe plunging of horses, and breaking of glass, could be made out, Mr. I’ickwdck 
felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the chaise ; and as soon 
as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from the skirts of his great coat, 
which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full disaster of the 
case met his view. 

Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes tom in several places, stood by 
his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at their feet. The post- 
boys, W'ho had succeeded in cutting the traces, were standing, disfigured with 
mud and disordered by hard riding, by the horses’ heads. About a hundred yards 
in advance was the other chaise, which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The 
postilions, each with a broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing tb« 


Tht Pickwick Club. 


74 

adverse party from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck 
from the coach-window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, 
and the whole scene was rendered perfectly vis)ble by the grey light of the 
morning. 

“Hallo ! shouted the shameless Jingle, “anybody damaged? — elderly gentle 
men — no light weights — dangerous work — very.” 

“ You’re a rascal ! ” roared Wardle. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ” replied Jingle ; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a 
jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise — “Isay — she’s very well — 
desires her compliments — begs you won’t trouble yourself — love to Tuppy — won’t 
you get up behind ? — drive on, boys.” 

The postilions resumed their proper attitudes, and away rattled the chaise, Mr. 
Jingle fluttering in derision a white handkerchief from the coach-window. 

Nothing in the whole adventure, not even the upset, had disturbed the calm and 
equable current of Mr. Pickwick’s temper. The villany, however, which could 
first borrow money of his faithful follower, and then abbreviate his name to 
“Tuppy,” was more than he could patiently bear. He drew his breath hard, and 
coloured up to the very tips of his spectacles, as he said, slowly and emphatically — 

“ If ever I meet that man again. I’ll ” 

“ Yes, yes,” interrupted Wardle, “ that’s all very well ; but while we stand 
talking here, they’ll get their licence, and be married in Lonoon.” 

Mr. Pickwick paused, bottled up his vengeance, and corkec' it down. 

“ How far is it to the next stage ? ” inquired Mr. Wardle, of one of the boys. 

“ Six mile, a’nt it, Tom ? ” 

“ Rayther better.” 

“ Rayther better nor six mile, sir.” 

“ Can’t be helped,” said Wardle, “ we must walk it, Pickwick.” 

“ No help for it,” replied that truly great man. 

So sending forward one of the boys on horseback, to procure a fresh chaise and 
horses, and leaving the other behind to take care of the broken one, Mr. Pickwick 
and Mr. Wardle set manfully forward on the walk, first tying their shawls round 
their necks, and slouching down their hats to escape as much as possible from 
the deluge of rain, which after a slight cessation had again begun to poiir heavily 
down. 


CHAPTER X. 

CLEARING UP ALL DOUBTS (iF ANY EXISTED) OF THE DISINTERESTEDNESS 
OF MR. jingle’s CHARACTER. 

There are in London several old inns, once the head-quarters of celebrated 
coaches in the days when coaches performed their journeys in a graver and more 
solemn manner than they do in these times ; but which have now degenerated into 
little more than the abiding and booking places of country waggons. The reader 
would look in vain for any of these ancient hostelries, among the Golden Crosses 
and Bull and Mouths, which rear their stately fronts in the improved streets of 
London. If he would light upon any of these old places, he must direct his steps 
to the obscurer quarters of the town ; and there in some secluded nooks he will 
find several, still standing with a kind of gloomy sturdiness, amidst the modem 
innovations which smround them. 


At the IFhite Hart in the Borough. 

In the Borough especially, there still remain some half dozen old inns, which 
have preserved their external features unchanged, and which have escaped alike 
the rage for public improvement, and the encroachments of private speculation. 
Great, rambling, queer, old places they are, with galleries, and passages, and 
staircases, wide enough and antiquated enough to furnish materials for a hundred 
ghost stories, supposing we should ever be reduced to the lamentable necessity of 
inventing any, and that the world should exist long enough to exhaust the innu- 
merable veracious legends connected with old London Bridge, and its adjacent 
neighbourhood on the Surrey side. 

It was in the yard of one of these inns — of no less celebrated a one than the 
White Hart — that a man was busily employed in brushing the dirt off a pair of 
boots, early on the morning succeeding the events narrated in the last chapter. 
He was habited in a coarse-striped waistcoat, with black calico sleeves, and blue 
glass buttons ; drab breeches and leggings. A bright red handkerchief was wound 
in a very loose and unstudied style round his neck, and an old white hat was care- 
lessly thro-wn on one side of his head. There were two rows of boots before him, 
one cleaned and the other dirty, and at every addition he made to the clean row, 
he paused from his work, and contemplated its results with evident satisfaction. 

The yard presented none of that bustle and activity which are the usual charac- 
teristics of a large coach inn. Three or four lumbering waggons, each with a pile 
of goods beneath its ample canopy, about the height of the second-floor window 
of an ordinary' house, were stowed away beneath a lofty roof which extended over 
one end of the yard ; and another, which was probably to commence its journey 
that morning, was drawn out into the open space. A double tier of bed-room 
galleries, with old clumsy balustrades, ran round two sides of the straggling area, 
and a double row of bells to correspond, sheltered from the weather by a little 
sloping roof, hung over the door leading to the bar and coffee-room. Two or 
three gigs and chaise-carts were wheeled up under different little sheds and pent- 
houses ; and the occasional heavy tread of a cart-horse, or rattling of a chain at 
the further end of the yard, announced to anybody who cared about the matter, 
that the stable lay in that direction. When we add that a few boys in smock 
frocks were l5dng asleep on heavy packages, woolpacks, and other articles that 
were scattered about on heaps of straw, we have described as fully as need be the 
general appearance of the yard of the White Hart Inn, High Street, Borough, on 
the particular morning in question. 

A loud ringing of one of the bells, was followed by the appearance of a smart 
chambermaid in the upper sleeping gallery, who, after tapping at one of the doors, 
and receiving a request from within, called over the balustrades — 

“ Sam ! ” 

“ Hallo,” replied the man with the white hat. 

“ Number twenty-two wants his boots.” 

“ Ask number twenty-two, wether he’ll have ’em now, or wait till he gets ’em,” 
was the reply. 

“ Come, don’t be a fool, Sam,” said the girl, coaxingly, “ the gentleman wants 
his boots directly.” ' 

“ Well, you are a nice young ’ooman for a musical party, you are,” said the 
boot-cleaner. “ Look at these here boots — eleven pair o’ boots ; and one shoe 
as b’longs to numbei six, with the wooden leg. The eleven boots is to be called 
at half-past eight and the shoe at nine. Who’s number twenty-two, that’s to put 
all the others out ? No, no ; reg’lar rotation, as Jack Ketch said, wen he tied tlie 
men up. Sorry to keep you a waitin’, sir, but I’ll attend to you directly.” 

Saying which, the man in the white hat set to work upon a top-b«ot w?lh 
increased assiduity. 


76 


The Pickwick Club, 


There was another loud ring ; and the bustling old landlady of the "WTiite Hurt 
made her appearance in the opposite gallery. 

“ Sam,” cried the landlady, “ where’s that lazy, idle — ^why, Sanfx — oh, there you 
are ; why don’t you answer ? ” 

“ Wouldn’t be gen-teel to answer, ’till you’d done talking,” replied Sam, gruffly. 

“ Here, clean them shoes for number seventeen directly, and take ’em to private 
sitting-room, number five, first floor.” 

The landlady flung a pair of lady’s shoes into the yard, and bustled away. 

“ Number 5,” said Sam, as he picked up the shoes, and taking a piece of chalk 
from his pocket, made a niemorandum of their destination on the soles — “Lady’s 
shoes and private sittin’ room ! I suppose she didn’t come in the waggin.” 

“ She came in early this morning,” cried the girl, who was still leaning over the 
railing of the gallery, “with a gentleman in a hackney-coach, and it’s him as 
wants his boots, and you’d better do ’em, that’s all about it.” 

“ Vy didn’t you say so before,” said Sam, with great indignation, singling out 
the boots in question from the heap before him. “For all I know’d he vas one 
o’ the regular three-pennies. Private room ! and a lady too ! If he’s anything 
of a gen’lm’n, he’s vorth a shillin’ a day, let alone the arrands.” 

Stimulated by this inspiring reflection, Mr. Samuel brushed away with such 
hearty good will, that in a few minutes the boots and shoes, with a polish which 
would have struck envy to the soul of the amiable Mr. Warren (for they used 
Day and Martin at the White Hart), had arrived at the door of number five. 

“ Come in,” said a man’s voice, in reply to Sam’s rap at the door. 

Sam made his best bow, and stepped into the presence of a lady and gentle- 
man seated at breakfast. Having officiously deposited the gentleman’s boots 
rignt and left at his feet, and the lady’s shoes right and left at hers, he backed 
towards the door. 

“Boots,” said the gentleman. 

“ Sir,” said Sam, closing the door, and keeping his hand on the knob of the 
lock. 

“ Do you know — what’s a-name — Doctors’ Commons ?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ Where is it ? ” 

“Paul’s Church-yard, sir; low archway on the carriage-side, bookseller’s at one 
comer, hot-el on the other, and two porters in the middle as touts for licences.” 

“ Touts for licences ! ” said the gentleman. 

“Touts for licences,” replied Sam. “Two coves in vhite aprons — touches 
their hats wen you walk in — ‘ Licence, sir, licence } ’ Queer sort, them, and 
their mas’rs too, sir— Old Baily Proctors— and no mistake.” 

“ What do they do ” inquired the gentleman. 

“ Do ! You, sir ! That a’nt the wost on it, neither. They puts things into old 
gen’lm’n’s heads as they never dreamed of. My father, sir, wos a coachman. 
A widower he wos, and fat enough for anything— uncommon fat, to be sure. His 
missus dies, and leaves him four hundred pound. Down he goes to the Commons, 
to see the lawyer and draw the blunt — wery smarts — top boots on — nosegay in his 
button-hole — broad-brirnmed tile — green shawl — quite the gen’lm’n. Goes 
through the archvay, thinking how he should inwest the money — up comes the 
touter, touches his hat— ‘ Licence, sir, licence .? ‘ What’s that .? ’ says my father. 

— ‘ Licence, sir,’ says he.— ‘What licence ?’ says my father.—' Maniage licence,’ 

says the touter. — ‘ Dash my veskit,’ says my father, ‘ I never thought o’ that.’ ‘ I 

tmnk you wants one, sir,’ says the touter. My father pulls up, and thinks abit — 

too old, b’sides I’m a many sizes too large,’ says he 
<r-‘Not a bit on it, sir,’ says the touter.—' Think not .?’ says my fatlier.— ‘I’m sure 


Mr. Samuel Weller relates an Anecdote. 


V 


not,’ says he ; ‘ we married a gen’Im’n twice your size, last Monday.’ — ‘Did you, 
though,’ said my father. — ‘To be su.e, we did,’ says the touter, ‘3’ou’re a babby 
to him — this way, sir — this way ! ’ — and sure enough my father walks arter him, 
like a tame monkey behind a horgan, into a little back office, veie a feller sat 
among dirty papers and tin boxes, making believe he was busy. ‘ Pi ay take a 
seat, vile I makes out the affidavit, sir,’ says the lawyer. — ‘ Thankee, sir,’ says my 
father, and down he sat, and stared with all his eyes, and his mouth vide open, at 
the names on the boxes. ‘’Wliat’s your name, sir,’ says the lawyer. — ‘Tony 
Weller,’ says my father. — ‘Parish?’ says the laAvyer. — ‘ Belle Savage,’ says my 
father ; for he stopped there wen he drove up, and he know’d nothing about 
parishes, he didn’t. — ‘ And what’s the lady’s name ? ’ says the lawyer. My father 
was struck all of a heap. ‘Blessed if I know,’ says he. — ‘Not know!’ says the 
lawyer. — ‘ No more nor you do,’ says my father, ‘ can’t I put that in arteiwards ?’ 
— ‘Impossible !’ says the lawyer. — ‘ Weiy well,’ says my father, after he’d thought 
a moment, ‘put down Mrs. Clarke.’ — ‘What Clarke?’ say^s the lawyer, dipping 
his pen in the ink. — ‘ Susan Clarke, Markis o’ Granby, Dorking,’ says my father ; 

‘ she’ll have me, if I ask, I des-say — I never said nothing to her, but she’ll have me, 
I know.’ The licence was made out, and she did have him, and what’s more 
she’s got him now ; and / never had any of the four hundred pound, worse luck. 
Beg your pardon, sir,” said Sam, when he had concluded, “ but wen I gets on 
this here ginevance, I runs on like a new barrow vith the wheel greased.” Having 
said which, and having paused for an instant to see whether he was wanted for 
anything more, Sam left the room. 

“ Half-past nine — just the time — off at once;” said the gentleman, whom we 
need hardly introduce as Mr. Jingle. 

“ Time — for what ?” said the spinster aunt, coquettishly. 

“ Licence, dearest of angels — give notice at the church — call you mine, to- 
morrow ” — said Mr. Jingle, and he squeezed the spinster aunt’s hand. 

“ The licence I ” said Rachael, blushing. 

“ The licence,” repeated Mr. Jingle — 

“In huriy. post-liaste for a licence. 

In liurry, ding dong I come back.** 

“ How you run on,” said Rachael. 

“ Run on — nothing to the hours, days, weeks, months, years, when we’re united 
— run on — they’ll fly on — bolt — mizzle — steam-engine — thousand-horse power — 
nothing to it.” 

“ Can’t — can’t we be married before to-morrow morning ?” inquired Rachael. 

“ Impossible — can’t be — notice at the church — leave the licence to-day — cere- 
mony come off to-morrow.” 

“ I am so terrified, lest my brother should discover us !” said Rachael. 

“ Discover — nonsense — too much shaken by the break down — besides — extreme 
caution — gave up the post-chaise — walked on — took a hackney coach — came to 
the Borough — last place in the world that he’d look in — ha I ha I — capital notion 
that — ver)\” 

“Don’t be long,” said the spinster, affectionately, as Mr. Jingle stuck the 
pinched-up hat on his head. 

“ Long away from you ? — Cniel charmer,” and Mr. Jingle skipped playfully 
up to the spinster aunt, imprinted a chaste kiss upon her lips, and danced out of 

the room. , . 

“ Dear man !” said the spinster as the door closed after him. 

“ Rum old girl,” said Mr. Jingle, as he walked down the passage. 

It is painful to reflect upon the perfidy of our species ; and we will not, there* 
foe, pursue the thread of Mr. Jingle’s meditations, as he wended his way to 


78 


The Pickwick Club. 


Doctors’ Commons. It will be sufficient for our purpose to relate, that escaping 
the snares of the dragons in white aprons, who guard the entrance to that en- 
chanted region, he reached the Vicar General’s office in safety, and having pro- 
cured a highly flattering address on parchment, from the Archbishop of Cantei- 
bury, to his “trusty and well-beloved Alfred Jingle and Rachael Wardle, greeting,” 
he carefully deposited the mystic document in his pocket, and retraced his steps in 
triumph to the Borough. 

He was yet on his way to the White Hart, when two plump gentlemen and one 
thin one entered the yard, and looked round in search of some authorised person 
of whom they could make a few inquiries. Mr. Samuel Weller happened to be 
at that moment engaged in burnishing a pair of painted tops, the personal property 
of a farmer who was refreshing himself with a slight lunch of two or three pounds 
of cold beef and a pot or two of porter, after the fatigues of the Borough market ; 
and to him the thin gentleman straightway advanced. 

“ My friend,” said the thin gentleman. 

“You’re one o’ the adwice gratis order,” thought Sam, “ or you wouldn’t be 
so werry fond o’ me all at once.” But he only said — “ Well, sir.” 

“ My friend,” said the thin gentleman, with a conciliatory hem — “ Have you 
got many people stopping here, now ? Pretty busy. Eh 

Sam stole a look at the inquirer. He was a little high-dried man, ^vith a dark 
squeezed-up face, and small restless black eyes, that kept winking and twinkling 
on each side of his little inquisitive nose, as if they were playing a perpetual game 
of peep-bo with that feature. He was dressed all in black, with boots as shiny as 
his eyes, a low white neckcloth, and a clean shirt with a frill to it. A gold watch- 
chain, and seals, depended from his fob. He carried his black kid gloves in his 
hands, not on them ; and as he spoke, thrust his wrists beneath his coat-tails, with 
the air of a man who was in the habit of propounding some regular posers. 

“ Pretty busy, eh ” said the little man. 

“Oh, werry well, sir,” replied Sam, “we shan’t be bankrupts, and we shan’t 
make our fort’ns. We eats our biled mutton without capers, and don’t care for 
horse-radish wen ve can get beef.” 

“ Ah,” said the little man, “ you’re a wag, a’nt you ? ” 

“ My eldest brother was troubled with that complaint,” said Sam ; “ it nidy be 
catching — I used to sleep with him.” 

“ This is a curious old house of yours,” said the little man, looking round him. 

“ If you’d sent word you was a coming, we’d ha’ had it repaired;” replied the 
imperturbable Sam. 

The little man seemed rather baffled by these several repulses, and a short con- 
sultation took place between him and the two plump gentlemen. At its 
conclusion, the little man took a pinch of snuff from an oblong silver box, and 
was apparently on the point of renewing the conversation, when one of the plump 
gentlemen, who in addition to a benevolent countenance, possessed a pair of 
spectacles, and a pair of black gaiters, interfered — 

“ The fact of the matter is,” said the benevolent gentleman, “ that my friend 
here (pointing to the other plump gentleman) will give you half a guinea, if you’ll 
answer one or two — ” 

“ Now, my dear sir— my dear sir,” said the little man, “ pray, allow me— my 
dear sir, the very first principle to be observed in these cases, is this : if you place 
a matter in the hands of a professional man, you must in no way interfere in the 
progress of the business ; you must repose implicit confidence in him. Really, 
Mr. (he turned to the other plump gentleman, and said) — I forget your friend’s 
name.” 

“Pickwick,” said Mr. Wardle, for it was no other than that joUy personage. 


79 


Diploinacy with Mr. Weller, 


“ Ah, Pickwick — really Mr. Pickwick, my dear sir, excuse me — I shall be 
happy to receive any private suggestions of yours, as amicus curicB, but you must 
see the impropriety of your interfering with my conduct in this case, "with such an 
ad captandum argument as the offer of half a guinea. Really, my dear sir, 
really and the little man took an argumentative pinch of snuff, and looked 
very profound. 

“My only wish, sir,’’ said Mr. Pickwick, “was to bring this very unpleasant 
matter to as speedy a close as possible.” 

“ Quite right — quite right,” said the little man. 

“ With which view,” continued Mr. Pickwick, “ I made use of the argument 
which my experience of men has taught me is the most likely to succeed in any 
case.” 

“Ay, ay,” said the little man, “very good, very good, indeed ; but you should 
have suggested it to me. My dear sir, I’m quite certain you cannot be ignorant 
of the extent of confidence which must be placed in professional men. If any 
authority can be necessary on such a point, my dear sir, let me refer you to the 
well-known case in Barnwell and — ” 

“ Never mind George Barnwell,” interrupted Sam, who had remained a won- 
dering listener during this short colloquy ; “ every body knows vhat sort of a case 
his was, tho’ it’s always been my opinion, mind you, that the young ’ooman 
deserved scragging a precious sight more than he did. Hows’ever, that’s neither 
here nor there. You want me to except of half a guinea. Werry well, I’m 
agreeable : I can’t say no fairer than that, can I, sir .? (Mr. Pickwick smiled.) 
Then the next question is, what the devil do you want with me, as the man said 
wen he see the ghost ? ” 

“ We want to know — ” said Mr. Waidle. 

“ Now my dear sir— my dear sir,” interposed the busy little man. 

Mr. Wardle shrugged his shoulders, and was silent. 

“We want to know,” said the little man, solemnly ; “ and we ask the question 
of you, in order that we may not awaken apprehensions inside — we want to know 
who you’ve got in this house, at present } ” 

“ Who there is in the house ! ” said Sam, in whose mind the inmates were 
always represented by that particular article of their costume, which came under 
his immediate superintendence. “ There’s a wooden leg in number six ; there’s 
a pair of Hessians in thirteen ; there’s two pair of halves in the commercial ; 
there’s these here painted tops in the snuggery inside the bar ; and five more 
tops in the coffee-room.” 

“ Nothing more } ” said the little man. 

“ Stop a bit,” replied Sam, suddenly recollecting himself. “ Yes ; there’s a 
pair of Wellingtons a good deal worn, and a pair o’ lady’s shoes, in number five.” 

“ What sort of shoes ? ” hastily inquired Wardle, who, together with Mr. 
Pickwick, had been lost in bewilderment at the singular catalogue of visitors. 

“ Country make,” replied Sam. 

“ Any maker’s name ? ” 

“ Brown.” 

“Whereof?” 

“ Mugglo^on.” 

“ It is them,” exclaimed Wardle. “ By Heavens, we’ve found them.” 

“ Hush ! ” said Sam. “ The Wellingtons has gone to Doctors’ Commons.” 

“ No,” said the little man. 

“Yes, for a licence.” 

“ We’re in time,” exclaimed Wardle. “ Show us the room ; not a moment i? 
to be losL” 


8o 


The Pickwick Club. 


“Pray, my dear sir — pray,” said the little man; “caution, caution.” He 
drew from his [docket a red silk purse, and looked very hard at Sam ai he drew 
out a sovereign. 

Sam giinned expressively. ^ . 

“ Show us into the room at once, without announcing us,” said the little man, 
“and it’s yours.” 

Sam threw the painted tops into a comer, and led the way through a dark 
passage, and up a wide staircase. He paused at the end of a second passage, 
and held out his hand. 

“ Here it is,” whispered the attorney, as he deposited the money in the hand of 
their guide. 

The man stepped forward for a few paces, followed by the two friends and their 
legal adviser. He stopped at a door. 

“ Is this the room } ” murmured the little gentleman. 

Sam nodded assent. 

Old Wardle opened the door ; and the whole three walked into the room just 
as Mr. Jingle, who had that moment returned, had produced the licence to the 
spinster aunt. 

The spinster uttered a loud shriek, and, throwing herself in a chair, covered 
her face with her hands. Mr. Jingle crumpled up the licence, and thrust it 
into his coat-pocket. The unwelcome visitors advanced into the middle of the 
room. 

“ You — you are a nice rascal, arn’t you ? ” exclaimed Wardle, breathless with 
passion. 

“My dear sir, my dear sir,” said the little man, lajung his hat on the table. 
“ Pray, consider — pray. Defamation of character : action for damage.s. Calm 
yourself, my dear sir, pray — ” 

“ How dare you drag my sister from my house ? ” said the old man. 

“Ay — ay — very good,” said the little gentleman, “you may ask that. How 
dare you, sir .? — eh, sir .? ” 

“ Who the devil are you ? ” inquired Mr. Jingle, in so fierce a tone, that the 
little gentleman involuntarily fell back a step or two. 

“ Who is he, you scoundrel,” interposed Wardle. “ He’s my lawyer, Mr. 
Perker, of Gray’s Inn. Perker, I’ll have this fellow prosecuted — indicted — I’ll — 
I’ll— -I’ll ruin him. And you,” continued Mr. Wardle, turning abruptly round 
to his sister, “you, Rachael, at a time of life when you ought to know better, 
what do you mean by running away with a vagabond, disgracing your family, and 
making yourself miserable. Get on your bonnet, and come back. Call a hack- 
ney-coach there, directly, and bring this lady’s bill, d’ye hear — d’ye hear ? ” 

“ Cert’nly, sir,” replied Sam, who had answered Wardle’s violent ringing of the 
bell with a degree of celerity which must have appeared marvellous to anybody 
who didn’t know that his eye had been applied to the outside of the keyhole 
during the whole interview. 

“ Get on your bonnet,” repeated Wardle. 

“ Do nothing of the kind,” said Jingle. “ Leave the room, sir— no business 
here — lady’s free to act as she pleases — more than one-and-twenty.” 

“ More than one-and-tM cnty ! ” ejaculated Wardle, contemptuously. “ More 
tlian one-and-forty ! ” 

“ I a’nt,” said the spinstei aunt, her indignation getting the better of her Leter. 
mination to faint. 

“ You are,” replied Wardle, “you’re fifty if you’re an hour.” 

Here the spinster aunt uttered a loud shriek, and became senseless. 

“A glass of water,” said the humane Mr. Pir’-'inck, summoning the landlady. 


Tending towards a Compromise. 8 j 

“ A glass of water ! ” said the passionate Wardle. “ Biing a bucket, and throw 
it all over her ; it’ll do her good, and she richly deseiwes it.” 

“ Ugh, you brute ! ” ejaculated the kind-hearted landlady. “ Poor dear.” And 
with sundry ejaculations, of “ Come now, there’s a dear — drink a little of this— 
it’ll do you good — don’t give way so — there’s a love,” &c., &c., the landlady, 
assisted by a chamber-maid, proceeded to vinegar the forehead, beat the hands, 
titillate the nose, and unlace the stays of the spinster aunt, and to administer such 
other restoratives as are usually applied by compassionate females to ladies w'ho 
are endeavouring to ferment themselves into hysterics. 

“ Coach is ready, sir,” said Sam, appearing at the door. 

“ Come along,” cried Wardle. “ I’ll carry her down stairs.” 

At this pioposition, the hysterics came on with redoubled violence. 

The landlady was about to enter a very violent protest against this proceeding, 
and had already given vent to an indignant inquiry whether Mr. Wardle considered 
himself a lord of the creation, when Mr. Jingle interposed — 

“ Boots,” said he, “ get me an officer.” 

“ Stay, stay,” said little Mr. Perker. “ Consider, sir, consider.” 

“ I’ll 7iot consider,” replied Jingle. “ She’s her own mistress — see who dares 
to take her away — unless she wishes it.” 

“ I won't be taken away,” murmured the spinster aunt. I don't wish it.” 
(Here there was a frightful relapse). 

“ My dear sir,” said the little man, in a low tone, taking Mr. Wardle and Mr. 
Pickwick apart : “ My dear sir, we’re in a very awkward situation. It’s a distressing 
case — very ; I never knew one more so ; but really, my dear sir, really we have no 
power to control this lady’s actions. I warned you before we came, my dear sir, 
that there was nothing to look to but a compromise.” 

There was a short pause. 

“ What kind of compromise would you recommend } " inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Why, my dear sir, our friend’s in an unpleasant position — very much so. We 
must be content to suffer some pecuniary loss.” 

“ I’ll suffer any, rather than submit to this disgrace, and let her, fool as she is, 
be made miserable for life,” said Wardle. 

“ I rather think it can be done,” said the bustling little man. “ Mr. Jingle, 
will you step with us into the next room for a moment } " 

Mr. Jingle assented, and the quartette walked into an empty apartment. 

“Now, sir,” said the little man, as he carefully closed the door, “is there no 
way of accommodating this matter — step this way, sir, for a moment — into this 
window, sir, where we can be alone — there, sir, there, pray sit down, sir. Now, 
my dear sir, between you and I, we know very well, my dear sir, that you have 
run off with this lady for the sake of her money. Don’t frown, sir, don’t frown ; 
I say, between you and I, we know it. We are both men of the world, and we 
know very well that our friends here, are not — eh } " 

Mr. Jingle’s face giadually relaxed ; and something distantly resembling a wink 
quivered lor an instant in his left eye. 

“Very good, very good,” said the little man, observing the impression he had 
made. “ Now the fact is, that beyond a few hundreds, the lady has little or 
nothing till the death of her mother — line old lady, my dear sir.” 

“ Old," said Mr. Jingle, briefly but emphatically. 

“ Why, yes,” said the attorney with a slight cough. “ You are right, my dear 
sir, she is 7 -ather old. She comes of an old family though, my dear sir ; old in 
every sense of the word. The founder of that family came into Kent, when 
Julius Ceesar invaded Britain ; — only one member of it, since, who hasn’t lived to 
eighty-five, and he was beheaded by one of the Henrys. The old lady is not 


82 


The Pichwick Cliih. 


seventy-three now, my dear sir.” The little man paused, and took a pinch oi 
snuff. 

“ Well,” cried Mr. Jingle. 

“ Well, my dear sir— you don’t take snuff !— ah ! so much the better— expensive 
habit — well, my dear sir, you’re a fine young man, man of the world — able to push 
your fortune, if you had capital, eh ? ” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Jingle again. 

“ Do you comprehend me ? ” 

“ Not quite.” 

“Don’t you think — now, my dear sir, I put it to you, don^t you think — that 
fifty pounds and liberty, would be better than Miss Wardle and expectation ? ” 

“ Won’t do — not half enough ! ” said Mr. Jingle rising. 

“ Nay, nay, my dear sir,” r^'monstrated the little attorney, seizing him by the 
button. “ Good round sum — a man like you could treble it in no time — great 
deal to be done with fifty pounds, my dear sir.” 

“More to be done with a hundred and fifty,” replied Mr. Jingle, coolly. 

“ Well, my dear sir, we won’t waste time in splitting straws,” resumed the little 
man, “say — say — seventy.” 

“Won’t do,” said Mr. Jingle. 

“ Don’t go away, my dear sir — pray don’t hmry,” said the little man. “ Eighty,* 
come : I’ll write you a cheque at once.” 

“ Won’t do,” said Mr. Jingle. 

“Well, my dear sir, well,” said the little man, still detaining him; “just tell 
me what will do.” 

“ Expensive affair,” said Mr. Jingle. “ Money out of pocket — posting, nine 
pounds ; licence, three — that’s twelve — compensation, a hundred — hundred and 
twelve — Breach of honour — and loss of the lady — ” 

“ Yes, my dear sir, yes,” said the little man, with a knowing look, “ never mind 
the last two items. That’s a hundred and twelve — say a huncEed — come.” 

“And twenty,” said Mr. Jingle. 

“ Come, come, I’ll write you a cheque,” said the little man ; and down he sat 
at the table for that purpose. 

“ I’ll make it payable the day after to-morrow,” said the little man, with a look 
towards Mr. Wardle ; “ and we can get the lady away, meanwhile.” Mr. Wardle 
sullenly nodded assent. 

“ A hundred,” said the little man. 

“ And twenty,” said Mr. Jingle. 

“ My dear sir,” remonstrated the little man. 

“ Give it him,” interposed Mr. Wardle, “ and let him go.” 

The cheque was written by the little gentleman, and pocketed by Mr. Jingle. 

“ Now, leave this house instantly ! ” said Wardle, starting up. 

“ My dear sir,” urged the little man. 

“And mind,” said Mr. Wardle, “that nothing should have induced me to 
make this compromise — not even a regard for my family — if I had not known that 
the moment you got any money in that pocket of yours, you’d go to the devil 
faster, if possible, than you would without it — ” 

“My dear sir,” urged the little man again. 

“ Be quiet, Perker,” resumed Wardle. “ Leave the room, sir.” 

“ Off directly,” said the unabashed Jingle. “ Bye bye, Pickwick.” 

If any dispassionate spectator could have beheld the countenance of the illus- 
trious man, whose name forms the leading feature of the title of this work, during 
the latter part of this conversation, he would have beer rlmost induced to wonder 
that the indignant fire which flashed from his eyes, did not melt the glasses oi 


Compromised. 


83 


his spectacles — so majestic was his wrath. His nostrils dilated, and his fists 
clenched involuntarily, as he heard himself addressed by tlie villain. But he 
restrained himself again — he did not pulverise him. 

“Here,” continued the hardened traitor, tossing the licence at Mr. Pickwick’s 
feet ; “ get the name altered — take home the lady — do for Tuppy.” 

Mr. Pickwick was a philosopher, but philosophers are only men in armour, after 
all. The shaft had reached him, penetrated through his philosophical harness, 
to his very heart. In the frenzy of his rage, he hurled the inkstand madly for- 
ward, and followed it up himself. But Mr. Jingle had disappeared, and he found 
himself caught in the arms of Sam. 

“Hallo,” said that eccentric functionary, “ fumiter’s cheap were you come 
from, sir. Self-acting ink, that ’ere ; it’s wrote your mark upon the wall, old 
gen’lm’n. Hold still, sir : wot’s the use o’ runnin’ arter a man as has made his 
lucky, and got to t’ other end of the Borough by this time.” 

Mr. PicI wick’s mind, like those of all truly gieat men, was open to conviction. 
He was a quick, and powerful reasoner ; and a moment’s reflection sufficed to 
remind him of the impotency of his rage. It subsided as quickly as it had been 
roused. He panted for breath, and looked benignantly round upon his friends. 

Shall we tell the lamentations that ensued, when Miss Wardle found herself 
deserted by the faithless Jingle ? Shall we extract Mr. Pickwick’s masterly 
description of that heart-rending scene ? His note-book, blotted with the tears 
of sympathising humanity, lies open before us ; one word, and it is in the printer’s 
hands. But, no ! we will be resolute ! We will not wring the public bosom, with 
the delineation of such suffering ! 

- Slowly and sadly did the two friends and the deserted lady, return next day in 
the Muggleton heavy coach. Dimly and darldy had the sombre shadows of a 
summer’s night fallen upon all around, when they again reached Dingley Dell, 
and stood within the entrance to Manor Farm. 


CHAPTER XI. 

INVOLVING ANOTHER JOURNEY, AND AN ANTIQUARIAN DISCOVERY. RECORD- 
ING MR. PICKWICK’S DETERMINATION TO BE PRESENT AT AN ELECTION ; 
AND CONTAINING A MANUSCRIPT OF THE OLD CLERGYMAN’S. 

A NIGHT of quiet and repose in the profound silence of Dingley Dell, and an 
hour’s breathing of its fresh and fragrant air on the ensuing morning, completely 
recovered Mr. Pickwick from the eflects of his late fatigue of body and anxiety 
of mind. That illustrious man had been separated from his friends and followers, 
for two whole days ; and it was with a degree of pleasure and delight, which no 
common imagination can adequately conceive, that he stepped forward to greet 
Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, as he encountered those gentlemen on his 
return from his early walk. The pleasure was mutual ; for who could ever gaze 
on Mr. Pickwick’s beaming face without experiencing the sensation ? But still a 
cloud seemed to hang over his companions which that great man could not but be 
sensible ol, and was wholly at a loss to account for. There was a mysterious air 
about them both, as unusual as it was alarming. 

“And how,” said Mr. Pickwick, when he had grasped his followers by the 
hand, and exchanged warm salutations of welcome ; “ how is Tupnian? ” 

Mr. Winkle, to whom the question was more peculiarly addressed, made no 


84 


The Pickwick Club. 


reply. He turned away his head, and appeared absorbed in melancholy 
reflection. 

“ Snodgi-ass,” said Mr. Pickwick, earnestly, “ How is our friend— ho is 
not ill .? ” 

“No,” replied Mr. Snodgrass ; and a tear trembled on his sentimental eye-lid, 
like a rain-drop on a window-frame. “ No ; he is not ill.” 

Mr. Pickwick stopped, and gazed on each of his friends in turn. 

“Winlde — Snodgrass,” said Mr. Pickwick; “ what does this mean .? Where 
is our friend.? What has happened.? Speak— I conjure, I entreat— nay, I 
command you, speak.” 

There was a solemnity — a dignity — in Mr. Pickwick’s manner, not to be 
withstood. 

“ Pie is gone,” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ Gone ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. “ Gone ! ” 

“ Gone,” repeated Mr. Snodgrass. 

“Where! ” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. 

“ We can only guess, from that communication,” replied Mr. Snodgrass, taking 
a letter from his pocket, and placing it in his friend’s hand. “Yesterday morn- 
ing, when a letter was received from Mr. Wardle, stating that you would be 
home w’ith his sister at night, the melancholy which had hung over our friend 
during the whole of the previous day, was observed to increase. He shortly 
afterwards disappeared : he was missing during the whole day, and in the evening 
this letter was brought by the hostler from the Crown, at Muggleton. It had been 
left in his charge in the morning, with a strict injunction that it should not be 
delivered until night. 

Mr. Pickwick opened the epistle. It was in his friend’s handwriting, and 
these were its contents ; — 

“ My dear Pickwick, 

“ You, my dear friend, are placed far beyond the reach of many mortal frailties 
and weaknesses which ordinary people cannot overcome. You do not know 
what it is, at one blow, to be deserted by a lovely and fascinating creature, 
and to fall a victim to the artifices of a villain, who hid the grin of cunning, 
beneath the mask of friendship. I hope you never may. 

“Any letter, addressed to me at the Leather Bottle, Cobham, Kent, will be 
forwarded— supposing I still exist. I hasten from the sight of that world, which 
has become odious to me. Should I hasten from it altogether, pity — forgive 
me. Life, my dear Pickwick, has become insupportable to me. The spirit 
which bums within us, is a porter’s knot, on which to rest the heavy load of 
worldly cares and troubles ; and when that spirit fails us, the burden is too heavy 
to be borne. We sinlc beneath it. You may teU Rachael— Ah, that name I— 

“Tracy Tupman.” 

“We must leave this place, directly,” said Mr. Pickwick, as he refolded the 
note. “ It would not have been decent for us to remain here, under any circum- 
stances, after what has happened ; and now we are bound to follow in search of 
our fiiend.” And so saying, he led the way to the house. 

His intention was rapidly communicated. The entreaties to remain were 
pressing, but Mr. Pickwick was inflexible. Business, he said, requhed his imme- 
diate attendance. 

The old clergy'man was present. 

“ You are not really going ?” said he, taking Mr. Pickwick aside. 

Mr. Pickwick reiterated his former determination. 

•^Then here,” said the old gentleman, “ is a little manuscript, which I had 


Mr. Tupmans Retreat. 


85 


hoped to have the pleasure of reading to you myself. I found it on the death of 
a friend of mine — a medical man, engaged in our County Lunatic Asylum— 
among a variety of papers, which I had the option of destroying or preseiwing, as 
I thought proper. I can hardly believe that the manuscript is genuine, though it 
certainly is not in my friend’s hand. However, whether it be the genuine produc- 
tion of a maniac, or founded upon the lavings of some unhappy being (which I 
tliink more probable), read it, and judge for yourself.” 

Mr. Pickwick received the manuscript, and parted from the benevolent old gen- 
tleman with many expressions of good-will and esteem. 

It was a more difficult task to take leave of the inmates of Manor Farm, from 
whom they had received so much hospitality and kindness. Mr. Pickwick kissed 
the young ladies — we were going to say, as if they were his OAvn daughters, only as 
he might possibly have infused a little more warmth into the salutation, the com- 
parison would not be quite appropriate — hugged the old lady with filial cordiality: 
and patted the rosy cheeks of the female seiwants in a most patriarchal manner, as 
he slipped into the hands of each, some more substantial expression of his 
approval. The exchange of cordialities with their fine old host and Mr. Trundle, 
were even more hearty and prolonged ; and it was not until Mr. Snodgrass had 
been several times called for, and at last emerged from a dark passage followed 
soon alter by Emily (whose bright eyes looked unusually dim), that the three 
friends were enabled to tear themselves from their friendly entertainers. Many a 
backward look they gave at the Farm, as they walked slowly away : and many a kiss 
did Mr. Snodgrass waft in the air, in acknowledgment of something very like 
a lady’s handkerchief, which was waved from one of the upper windows, until a 
turn of the iane hid the old house from their sight. 

At Muggleton they procured a conveyance to Rochester. By the time they 
reached the last-named place, the violence of their grief had sufficiently abated to 
admit of their making a very excellent early dinner ; and having procured the 
necessary information relative to the road, the three friends set forward again in 
the afternoon to w’alk to Cobham. 

A delightful walk it was : for it was a pleasant afternoon in June, and their way 
lay through a deep and shady wood, cooled by the light wind which gently rustled 
the thick foliage, and enlivened by the songs of the birds that perched upon the 
boughs. The ivy and the moss crept in thick clusters over the old trees, and the 
soft green turf overspread the ground like a silken mat. They emerged upon an 
open park, with an ancient hall, displaying the quaint and picturesque architecture 
of Elizabeth’s time. Long vistas of stately oaks and elm trees appeared on every 
side : large herds of deer were cropping the fresh gi'ass ; and occasionally & 
startled hare scoured along the ground, with the speed of the shadows thrown by 
the light clouds which swept across a sunny landscape like a passing breath of 
summer. 

“If this,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him, “if this were the place to 
which all who are troubled with our friend's complaint came, I fancy their old 
attachment to this world would very soon return.” 

“ I think so too,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ And really,” added Mr. Pickwick, after half an hour’s walking had brought 
them to the village, “ really, for a misanthrope’s choice, this is one of the prettiest 
and most desirable places of residence I ever met with.” 

In this opinion also, both Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass expressed their con- 
currence ; and having been directed to the Leathern Bottle, a clean and commo- 
dious village ale-house, the three travellers entered, and at once inquiied for a 
^/entleman of the name of Tupman. 

** Show the gentlemen into the parlour, Tom,” said the landlady. 


66 


The Pickwick Club. 


A stout countiy lad opened a door at the end of the passage, and the threfl 
friend<= entered a long, low-roofed room, furnished with a large number of high' 
backed leather-cushioned chairs, of fantastic shapes, and embellished with a 
great variety of old portraits and roughly-coloured prints of some antiquity. At 
the upper end of the room was a table, with a white cloth upon it, well covered 
with a roast fowl, bacon, ale, and et ceteras ; and at the table sat Mr. Tupman, 
looking as unlike a man who had taken his leave of the world, as possible. 

On the entrance of his friends, that gentleman laid down his knife and fork, and 
with a mournful air advanced to meet them. 

“ I did not expect to see you here,” he said, as he grasped Mr. Pickwick’s 
hand. “ It’s veiy kind.” 

“Ah!” said Mr. Pickwick, sitting down, and wiping from his forehead the 
perspiration which the walk had engendered. “ Finish your dinner, and walk out 
with me. I wish to speak to you alone.” 

Mr. Tupman did as he was desired ; and Mr. Pickwick having refreshed him- 
self with a copious draught of ale, waited his friend’s leisure. The dinner was 
quickly despatched, and they walked out together. 

For half an hour, their forms might have been seen pacing the churchyard to 
and fro, while Mr. Pickwick was engaged in combatting his companion’s resolu- 
tion. Any repetition of his arguments would be useless ; for what language 
could convey to them that energy and force which their gieat originator’s manner 
communicated ? Wliether Mr. Tupman was already tired of retirement, or 
whether he was wholly unable to resist the eloquent appeal which was made to 
him, matters not, he did not resist it at last. 

“It mattered little to him,” he said, “where he dragged out the miserable 
R emainder of his days : and since his friend laid so much stress upon his humble 
companionship, he was willing to share his adventures.” 

Mr. Pickwick smiled ; they shook hands ; and walked back to re-join their 
companions. 

It was at this moment that Mr. Pickwick made that immortal discovery, which 
has been tne pride and boast of his friends, and the envy of every antiquarian in 
this or any other country. They had passed the door of their inn, and walked a 
little way down the village, before they recollected the precise spot in which it 
stood. As they turned back, Mr. Pickwick’s eye fell upon a small broken stone, 
partially buried m the giound, in front of a cottage door. He paused. 

“ This is very strange,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“What is strange.?” inquired Mr. Tupman, staring eagerly at every object 
near him, but the right one. “ God bless me, what’s the matter ?” 

This last was an ejaculation of irrepressible astonishment, occasioned by seeing 
Mr. Pickwick, in his enthusiasm for discovery, fall on his knees before the little 
stone, and commence wiping the dust off it with his pocket-handkerchief. 

“There is an inscription here,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Is it possible ?” said Mr. Tupman. 

“ I can disceni,” continued Mr. Pick^vick, rubbing away with all his might, 
and gazmg intently through his spectacles : “ I can discern a cross, and a B, and 
then a T. This is iniportant,” continued Mr. Pickwick, starting up. “This is 
some veiy old inscription, existing perhaps long before the ancient alms-houses in 
this place. It must not be lost.” 

He tapped at the cottage door. A labouring man opened it. 

“ Do you know how this stone came here, my friend ?” inquired the benevolent 
Mr. Pickwick. 

“No, I doan’t sir,” replied the man civilly. “It was here long afore I wax 


The Day marhed hy a White Stone. 


87 


Mr. Pickwick glanced triumphantly at his companion. 

“You — you — are not particularly attached to it, I dare say,” said Mr. Pickwick, 
trembling with anxiety. “ You wouldn’t mind selling it, now } ” 

“ Ah ! but who’d buy it ? ” inquired the man, with an expression of face which 
he probably meant to be very cunning. 

“ I’ll give you ten shillings for it, at once,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ if you would 
take it up for me.” 

The astonishment of the village may be easily imagined, when (the little stone 
having been raised with one wrench of a spade), Mr. Pickwick, by dint of great 
personal exertion, bore it with his own hands to the inn, and after having care- 
fully washed it, deposited it on the table. 

The exultation and joy of the Pickwickians knew no bounds, when their 
patience and assiduity, their washing and scraping, were crowned with success. 
The stone was uneven and broken, and the letters were straggling and irregular, 
but the following fragment of an inscription was clearly to be deciphered : 


+ 

B I L S T 
U M 
P S H I 
S. M. 

ARK 

Mr. Pickwick’s eyes sparkled with delight, as he sat and gloated over the treasury, 
he had discovered. He had attained one of the greatest objects of his ambition. 
In a county known to abound in remains of the early ages ; in a village in which 
there still existed some memorials of the olden time, he — he, the Chairman of the 
Pickwick Club — had discovered a strange and curious inscription of unquestion- 
able antiquity, which had wholly escaped the observation of the many learned 
men who had preceded him. He could hardly trust the evidence of his senses. 

“ This — this,” said he, “ determines me. We return to town, to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow ! ” exclaimed his admiring followers. 

“ To-morrow,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ This treasure must be at once deposited 
where it can be thoroughly investigated, and properly understood. I have another 
reason for this step. In a few days, an election is to take place for the borough 
of Eatanswill, at which Mr. Perker, a gentleman whom I lately met, is the agent 
of one of the candidates. We will behold, and minutely examine, a scene so 
interesting to every Englishman.” 

“We will,” was the animated cry of three voices. 

Mr. Pickwick looked round him. The attachment and fervour of his followers, 
lighted up a glow of enthusiasm within him. He was their leader, and he felt it. 

“ Let us celebrate this happy meeting with a convivial glass,” said he. Tnis 
proposition, like the other, was received with unanimous applause. Having 
himself deposited the important stone in a small deal box, purchased from the 
landlady for the purpose, he placed himself in an arm-chair at the head of the 
table ; and the evening was devoted to festivity and conversation. 

It was past eleven o’clock — a late hour for the little village of Cobham — when 
Mr. Pickwick retired to the bed-room which had been prepared for his reception. 

‘ He threw open the lattice-window, and setting his light upon the table, fell into 
a train of meditation on the hurried events of the two preceding days. 

The hour and the place were both favourable to contemplation ; Mr. Pickwick 
was roused by the church-clock striking twelve. The first stroke of the hour 


88 


The Pickwick Club. 


sounded solemnly in his ear, but when the bell ceased the stillness seemed in. 
supportable ; — he almost felt as if he had lost a companion. He was neiwous 
and excited ; and hastily undressing himself and placing his light in the chimney, 
got into bed. 

* Every one has experienced that disagreeable state of mind, in which a sensation 
of bodi-ly weariness in vain contends against an inability to sleep. It was Mr. 
Pickwick’s condition at this moment : he tossed first on one side and then on the 
other; and perseveringly closed his eyes as if to coax himself to slumber. It 
was of no use. Whether it was the unwonted exertion he had undergone, or the 
heat, or the brandy and water, or the strange bed — whatever it was, his thoughts 
kept reverting veiy uncomfortably to the giim pictures down stairs, and the old 
stories to which they had given rise in the course of the evening. After half an 
hour’s tumbling about, he came to the unsatisfactory^ conclusion, that it was of 
no use trying to sleep ; so he got up and partially dressed himself. Anything, he 
thought, was better than lying there fancying all kinds of horrors. He looked 
out of the window — it was very dark. He walked about the room — it was very 
lonely. 

He had taken a few turns from the door to the window, and from the window 
to the door, when the clergyman’s manuscript for the fir'st time entered his head. 
It was a good thought. If it failed to interest him, it might send him to sleep. 
He took it from his coat-pocket, and drawing a small table tow'ards his bedside, 
trimmed the light, put on his spectacles, and composed himself to read. It was 
a strange hand-writing, and the paper was much soiled and blotted. The title 
gave him a sudden start, too ; and he could not avoid casting a wistful glance 
round the room. Reflecting on the absurdity of giving way to such feelings, 
however, he trimmed the light again, and read as follows ; 

A MADMAN’S MANUSCRIPT. 

“ Yes !— a madman’s ! How that word would have strirck to my hear t, many 
years ago! How it would have roused the terror that used to come upon me 
sometimes ; sending the blood hissing and tingling through my veins, till the cold 
dew of fear stood in large drops upon my skin, and my knees knocked together 
with fright I I like it now though. It’s a fine name. Shew me the monarch 
whose angry frown was ever feared like the glar e of a madman’s eye— whose cord 
and axe were ever half so sure as a madman’s gripe. Ho I ho ! It’s a grand 
thing to be mad ! to be peeped at like a wild lion thr ough the iron bars — to ^rash 
one s teeth and howl, through the long still night, to the merry ring of a heavy 
chain and to roll and twine among the straw, tr ansported with such brave music. 
Hurrah for the madhouse I Oh, it’s a rar e place ! 

“ I remember days when I was afraid of being mad ; when I used to start 
from my sleep, and fall upon my krrees, and pr ay to be spar ed from the curse of 
my race ; when I rushed from the sight of rneniment or happiness, to hide my- 
selfi in some lonely place, and spend the weary hours in watching the promess of 
the fever that was to consume my brain. I knew that madness was mixed up wath 
my very blood, and the marrow of my bones ; that one generation had passed 
away without the pestilence appearing among them, and that I was the first in 
whom It woiild revive. I knew it ?nust be so ; that so it always had been, and so 
It ever would be : and when I cowered in some obscure corner of a crowded room 
and saw men whisper, and point, and turn their eyes towards me, I knew they 
were tehing each other of the doomed madman ; and I slunk away a^ain to 
mope in solitude. ^ * 

«I did this for years ; long, long years they were. The rights here are long 


Golden Letters of Introduction. 


% 

sometimes — very long; but they are nothing to the restless nights, and dreadful 
dreams I had at that time. It makes me cold to remember them. Large dusky 
forms -with sly and jeering faces crouched in the corners of the room, and bent 
over my bed at night, tempting me to madness. They told me in low whispers, 
that the floor of the old house in which my father’s father died, was stained with* 
his o^vn blood, ehed by his own hand in ra^ng madness. I drove my fingers into 
my ears, but they screamed into my head till the room rang with it, that in one 
generation befoi e him the madness slumbered, but that his grandfather had lived 
for years with his hands fettered to the giound, to prevent his tearing himself to 
pieces. I knew they told the truth — I knew it well. I had found it out years 
before, though they had tried to keep it from me. Ha ! ha ! I was too cunning 
for them, madman as they thought me. 

“ At last it came upon me, and I wondered how I could ever have feared it. I 
could go into the world now, and laugh and shout with the best among them. I 
knew I was mad, but they did not even suspect it. How I used to hug myself 
with delight, when I thought of the fine trick I was playing them after their 
old pointing and leering, when I was not mad, but only dreading that I might 
one day become so ! And how I used to laugh for joy, when I was alone, and 
thought how well I kept my secret, and how quickly my kind friends would 
have fallen from me, if they had known the truth. I could have screamed with 
ecstasy when I dined alone with some fine roaring fellow, to think how pale he 
would have turned, and how fast he would have run, if he had knowm that the dear 
friend who sat close to him, sharpening a bright glittering knife, was a madman 
with all the power, and half the will, to plunge it in his heart. Oh, it was a 
merry life ! 

“ Riches became mine, wealth poured in upon me, and I rioted in pleasures 
enhanced a thousand fold to me by the consciousness of my well-kept secret. I 
inherited an estate. The law — the eagle-eyed law itself — had been deceived, and 
had handed over disputed thousands to a madman’s hands. Where was the wit 
of the sharp-sighted men of sound mind ? Where the dexterity of the lawyers, 
eager to discover a flaw ? The madman’s cunning had over-reached them all. 

“ I had money. How I was courted ! I spent it profusely. How I was 
praised ! How those three proud overbearing brothers humbled themselves before 
me ! The old white-headed father, too— such de-ference — such respect — such 
devoted friendship — he worshipped me ! The old man had a daughter, and 
the young men a sister ; and all the five were poor. I was rich ; and when I mairied 
the girl, I saw a smile of triumph play upon the faces of her needy relatives, as 
they thought of their well-planned .scheme, and their fine prize. It was for me 
to smile. To smile ! To laugh outright, and tear my hair, and roll upon the 
ground with shrieks of merriment. They little thought they had married her to a 
madman. 

“ Stay. If they had known it, would they have saved her ? A sister’s happi- 
ness against her husband’s gold. The lightest feather I blow into the air, against 
the gay chain that ornaments my body ! 

“ In one thing I was deceived with all my cunning. If I had not been mad — 
for though we madmen are sharp-witted enough, we get bewildered sometimes — 
I should have knoi n that the girl would rather have been placed, stiff and cold in 
a dull leaden coffin, than borne an envied bride to my rich, glittering house. I 
should have known that her heart was with the dark-eyed boy Avhose name I 
once heard her breathe in her troubled sleep ; and that she had been sacrificed 
to me, to relieve the poverty of the old white-headed man, and the haughty 
toothers. 

I don’t remember forms or faces now, but I know the girl was beautiful 


90 


The Pickwick Club. 


I was ; for in the bright moonlight nights, when I start up from my 

sleep, and all is quiet about me, I see, standing still and motionless in one 
corner of this cell, a slight and wasted figure with long black hair, which stream- 
ing down her back, stirs with no earthly wind, and eyes that fix their gaze on 
' me, and never wink or close. Hush ! the blood chills at my heart as I write 
it down — that form is her's ; the face is very pale, and the eyes are glassy bright ; 
but I know them well. That figure never moves ; it never frowns and mouths 
as others do, that fill this place sometimes ; but it is much more dreadful to 
me, even than the spirits that tempted me many years ago — it comes fresh from 
the grave ; and is so very death-like. 

“For nearly a year I saw that face grow paler; for nearly a year I saw the 
tears steal down the mournful cheeks, and never knew the cause. I found it 
out at last though. They could not keep it from me long. She had never 
liked me ; I had never thought she did : she despised my wealth, and hated the 
splendour in which she lived ; — I had not expected that. She loved another. 
This I had never thought of. Strange feelings came over me, and thoughts, forced 
upon me by some secret power, whirled round and round my brain. I did not 
hate her, though I hated the boy she still wept for. I pitied — yes, I pitied — the 
wretched life to which her cold and selfish relations had doomed her. I knew 
that she could not live long, but the thought that before her death she might give 
birth to some ill-fated being, destined to hand down madness to its offspring, 
deteiTuined me. I resolved to kill her. 

“For many weeks I thought of poison, and then of drowning, and then of fire. 
A fine sight the grand house in flames, and the madman’s wife smouldering away 
to cinders. Think of the jest of a large reward, too, and of some sane man 
swinging in the wind for a deed he never did, and all through a madman’s cun- 
ning ! I thought often of this, but I gave it up at last. Oh ! the pleasure of 
stropping the razor day after day, feeling the sharp edge, and thinking of the gash 
one stroke of its thin bright edge would make ! 

“ At last the old spirits who had been with me so often before whispered in my 
ear that the time was come, and thrust the open razor into my hand. I gi asped it 
firmly, rose softly from the bed, and leaned over my sleeping wife. Her face was 
buried in her hands. I withdrew them softly, and they fell listlessly on her bosom. 
She had been weeping ; for the traces of the tears were still wet upon her cheek. 
Her face was calm and placid ; and even as I looked upon it, a tranquil smile 
lighted up her pale features. I laid my hand softly on her shoulder. She started 
— it was only a passing dream. I leant forward again. She screamed, and woke. 

“ One motion of my hand, and she would never again have uttered cry or 
sound. But I was startled, and drew back. Her eyes were fixed on mine. I 
know not how it was, but they cowed and frightened me ; and I quailed beneath 
them. She rose from the bed, still gazing fixedly and steadily on me. I trembled ; 
the razor was in my hand, but I could not move. She made towards the door. 
As she neared it, she turned, and withdrew her eyes from my face. The spell was 
broken. I bounded forward, and clutched her by the arm. Uttering shriek upon 
shriek, she sunk upon the ground. 

“Now I could have killed her without a struggle ; but the house was alarmed. 
I heard the tread of footsteps on the stairs. I replaced the razor in its usual 
drawer, unfastened the door, and called loudly for assistance. 

“ They came, and raised her, and placed her on the bed. She lay bereft of 
animation for hours ; and when life, look, and speech returned, her senses had 
deserted her, and she raved wildly and furiously. 

“ Doctors were called in — great men who rolled up to my door in easy carriages, 
with iiae horses and gaudy servants. They were at her bedside for weeks. They had 


Family Pride and Honour. 


9* 


a great meeting, and consulted together in low and solemn voices in anothei room. 
One, the cleverest and most celebrated among them, took me aside, and bidding 
me prepare for the worst, told me — me, the madman ! — that my wife was mad. 
He stood close beside me at an open window, his eyes looking in my face, and his 
hand laid upon my arm. With one effort, I could "have hurled him into the street 
beneath. It would have been rare sport to have done it ; but my secret was at 
stake, and I let him go. A few days after, they told me I must place her under 
some restraint: I must provide a keeper for her. I! I went into the open 
fields where none could hear me, and laughed till the air resounded with my 
shouts ! 

“ She died next day. The white-headed old man followed her to the grave, 
and the proud brothers dropped a tear over the insensible coipse of her whose 
sufferings they had regarded in her lifetime with muscles of iron. All this was 
food for my secret mirth, and I laughed behind the white handkerchief which I 
held up to my face, as we rode home, ’till the tears came into my eyes. 

“ But though I had carried my object and killed her, I was restless and dis- 
turbed, and I felt that before long my secret must be known. I could not hide the 
wild mirth and joy which boiled \vithin me, and made me when I was alone, at 
home, jump up and beat my hands together, and dance round and round, and roar 
aloud. When I went out, and saw the busy crowds hurrying about the streets ; 
or to the theatre, and heard the sound of music, and beheld the people dancing, I 
felt such glee, that I could have rushed among them, and torn them to pieces limb 
from limb, and howled in transport. But I ground my teeth, and struck my feet 
upon the floor, and drove my sharp nails into my hands. I kept it down ; and no 
one knew I was a madman yet. 

“ I remember — though it’s one of the last things I can remember: for now I 
mix up realities with my dreams, and having so much to do, and being always 
hurried here, have no time to separate the two, from some strange confusion in 
which they get involved — I remember how I let it out at last. Ha ! ha ! I think 
I see their frightened looks now, and feel the ease with which I flung them from 
me, and dashed my clenched fist into their white faces, and then flew like the wind, 
and left them screaming and shouting far behind. The strength of a giant comes 
upon me when I think of it. There — see how this iron bar bends beneath my 
furious wrench. I could snap it like a twig, only there are long galleries here with 
many doors — I don’t think I could find my way along them ; and even if I could, 
I know there are iron gates below which they keep locked and barred. They know 
what a clever madman I have been, and they are proud to have me here, to show. 

“Let me see; — yes, I had been out. It was late at night when I reached 
home, and found the proudest of the three proud brothers waiting to see me — 
urgent business he said : I recollect it well. I hated that man with all a mad- 
man’s hate. Many and many a time had my fingers longed to tear him. They 
told me he was there. I ran swiftly up-stairs. He had a word to say to me. I 
dismissed the servants. It was late, and we were alone together— /or first time. 

I kept my eyes carefully from him at first, for I knew what he little thought — 
and I gloried in the knowledge — that the light of madness gleamed from them 
like fire. We sat in silence for a few minutes. He spoke at last. My recent 
dissipation, and strange remarks, made so soon after his sister’s death, v ere an 
insult to her memory. Coupling together many circumstances which had at first 
escaped his observation, he thought I had not treated her well. He wished to 
know whether he as right in inferring that I meant to cast a reproach upon her 
memory, and a disrespect upon her family. It was due to the uniform he wore.- 
to demand this explanation. 

“This man had a commission in the army — a commission, purchased with my 


92 


The Pickwick Club. 


money, and his sister’s misery ! This was the man who had been foremost in 
the plot to ensnare me, and grasp my wealth. This was the man who had been 
the main instrument in forcing his sister to wed me ; well knowing that her heart 
was given to that puling boy. Due to his uniform ! The livery of his degrada- 
tion ! I turned my eyes upon him — I could not help it — but I spoke not a word. 

“ I saw the sudden change that came upon him beneath my gaze. He was a 
bold man, but the colour faded from his face, and he drew back his chair. 1 
dragged mine nearer to him ; and as I laughed — I was very merry then — I saw 
him shudder. I felt the madness rising Avithin me. He was afraid of me. 

“ ‘ You were very fond of your sister when she was alive ’ — I said — ‘ Very.’ 

“ He looked uneasily round him, and I saw his hand grasp the back of his 
chair : but he said nothing. 

“ ‘You villain,’ said I, ‘I found you out; I discovered your hellish plots 
against me ; I know her heart was fixed on some one else before you compelled 
her to marry me. I know it — I know it.’ 

“ He jumped suddenly from his chair, brandished it aloft, and bid me stand 
back — for I took care to be getting closer to him all the time I spoke. 

“ I screamed rather than talked, for I felt tumultuous passions eddying tlrrough 
my veins, and the old spirits whispering and taunting me to tear his heart out. 

“ ‘ Damn you,’ said I, starting up, and rushing upon him ; ‘ I killed her. I 
am a madman. Down with you. Blood, blood ! I ■will have it ! ’ 

“ I turned aside with one blow the chair he hurled at me in his terror, and 
closed with him ; and with a heavy crash we rolled upon the floor together. 

“ It was a fine stmggle that ; for he was a tall strong man, fighting for his life; 
and I, a powerful madman, thirsting to destroy him. I knew no strength could 
equal mine, and I was right. Right again, though a madman ! His struggles 
grew fainter. I knelt upon his chest, and clasped his brawny throat firmly with 
both hands. His face grew purple ; his eyes were starting from his head, and 
with protruded tongue, he seemed to mock me. I squeezed the tighter. 

“ The door was suddenly burst open with a loud noise, and a crowd of people 
rushed forward, crying aloud to each other to secure the madman. 

“ My secret was out ; and my only struggle now was for liberty and freedom. 
I gained my feet before a hand was on me, threw myself among my assailants, 
and cleared my way with my strong arm, as if I bore a hatchet in my hand, and 
hewed them down before me. I gained the door, dropped over the banisters, ami 
in an instant was in the street. 

“ Straight and swift I ran, and no one dared to stop me. I heard the noise 
of feet behind, and redoubled my speed. It grew fainter and fainter in the dis- 
tance, and at length died away altogether : but on I bounded, through marsh 
and rivulet, over fence and wall, -with a -wild shout which was taken up by the 
strange beings that flocked around me on every side, and swelled the sound, till 
it pierced the air. I was borne upon the arms of demons who swept along upon 
the wind, and bore down bank and hedge before them, and spun me round and 
round with a rustle and a speed that made my head swim, until at last they threw 
me from them with a violent shock, and I fell heavily upon the earth. When I 
woke I found myself here — here in this gay cell where the sun-light seldom comes, 
and the moon steals in, in rays which only serve to show the dark shadows about 
me, and that silent figure in its old comer. When I lie awake, I can sometimes 
hear strange shrieks and cries from distant parts of this large place. AVhat they 
are, I know not ; but they neither come from that pale form, nor does it regarcl 
them. For from the first shades of dusk ’till the earliest light of morning, it still 
stands motionless in the same place, listening to the music of my iron chain, and 
i^atchuig my gambols on my straw bed.” 


93 


The Slone is carefully removed. 

At the end of the manus^iipt was written, in another hand, this note . 

[The unhappy man whose ravings are recorded above, was a melancholy in- 
stance of the baneful results of energies misdirected in early life, and excesses 
prolonged until their consequences could never be repaired. The thoughtless riot, 
dissipation, and debaucheiy of his younger days, produced fever and delirium. 
The first effects of the latter was the strange delusion, founded upon a well-known 
medical theoiy, strongly contended for by some, and as strongly contested by 
others, that an hereditaiy madness existed m his family. This produced a settled 
gloom, which in time developed a morbid insanity, and finally terminated in raving 
madness. There is every reason to believe that the events he detailed, though 
distorted in the description by his diseased imagination, really happened. It is 
only matter of wonder to those who were acquainted with the vices of his early 
career, that his passions, when no longer controlled by reason, did not lead him to 
the commission of still more frightful deeds.] 

Mr. Pickwick’s candle was just expiring in the socket, as he concluded the 
perusal of the old clergyman’s manuscript ; and when the light went suddenly 
out, without any previous flicker by way of warning, it communicated a very 
considerable start to his excited frame. Hastily throwing off such articles of 
clothing as he had put on when he rose from his uneasy bed, and casting a 
fearful glance around, he once more scrambled hastily between the sheets, and 
soon fell fast asleep. 

The sun was shining brilliantly into his chamber when he awoke, and the 
morning was far advanced. The gloom which had oppressed him on the previous 
night, had disappeared with the dark shadows which shrouded the landscape, and 
his thoughts and feelings were as light and gay as the morning itself. After a 
hearty breakfast, the four gentlemen sallied forth to walk to Gravesend, followed 
by a man bearing the stone in its deal box. They reached that town about one 
o’clock (their luggage they had directed to be forwarded to the City, from 
Rochester), and being fortunate enough to secure places on the outside of a coach, 
arrived in London in sound health and spirits, on that same afternoon. 

The next three or four days were occupied with the preparations w’hich were 
necessary for their journey to the borough of Eatanswill. As any reference to 
that most important undertaking demands a separate chapter, we may devote the 
few lines w'hich remain at the close of this, Xo nan-ate, with great bi'evity, the 
histoiy of the antiquarian discovery. 

It appears from the Transactions of the Club, then, that Mr. Pickwflek lectured 
upon the discover}^ at a General Club Meeting, convened on the night succeeding 
their return, and entered into a variety of ingenious and erudite speculations on 
the meaning of the inscription. It also appears that a skilful artist executed a 
faithful delineation of the curiosity, which was engraven on stone, and presented 
to the Royal Antiquarian Society, and other learned bodies — that heart-burnings 
and jealousies without number, were created by rival controversies which wei e 
penned upon the subject — and that Mr. Pickwick himself wrote a Pamphlet, 
containing ninety-six pages of very small print, and twenty-seven different read- 
ings of the inscription. That three old gentlemen cut off tlteir eldest sons with a 
shilling a-piece ior presuming to doubt the antiquity of the fragment — and that 
one enthusiastic individual cut himself off prematurely, in despair at being unable 
to fathom its meaning. That Mr. Pickwick was elected an honorary member of 
seventeen native and foreign societies, for making the discovery ; that none of the 
seventeen t'ould make anything of it ; but that aU the seventeen agreed it was very 
extraordinaiv. 

Blotton, indeed — and the name will be doomed to the undy ing contempt 


94 


The Pickwick Club. 


of those who cultivate the mysterious and the sublime — Mr. Blotton, we say, with 
the doubt and cavilling peculiar to vulgar minds, presumed to state a view of the 
case, as degrading as ridiculous. Mr. Blotton, with a mean desire to tarnish the 
lustre of ‘he immortal name of Pick^vick, actually undertook a journey to Cobham 
in person, and on his return, sarcastically observed in an oration at the club, that 
he had seen the man from whom the stone was purchased ; that the man pre- 
sumed the stone to be ancient, but solemnly denied the antiquity of the inscription 
— inasmuch as he represented it to have been rudely carved by himself in an idle 
mood, and to display letters intended to bear neither more nor less than the 
simple construction of— “ BILL STUMPS, HIS MARK;” and that Mr. 
Stumps, being little in the habit of original composition, and more accustomed to 
be guided by the sound of words than by the strict rules of orthography, had omitted 
the concluding “ L ” of his Christian name. 

The Pickwick Club (as might have been expected from so enlightened an 
Institution, received this statement with the contempt it deserved, expelled the 
presumptuous and ill-conditioned Blotton, and voted Mr. Pickwick a pair of gold 
spectacles, in token of their confidence and approbation ; in return for which, 
Mr. Pickwick caused a portrait of himself to be painted, and hung up in the club 
room. 

Mr. Blotton though ejected was not conquered. He also wrote a pamphlet, 
addressed to the seventeen learned societies, native and foreign, containing a repe- 
tition of the statement he had already made, and rather more than half intimating 
his opinion that the seventeen learned societies were so many “ humbugs.” 
Hereupon the virtuous indignation of the seventeen learned societies, native and 
foreign, being roused, several fresh pamphlets appeared ; the foreign learned 
societies corresponded with the native learned societies ; the native learned societies 
translated the pamphlets of the foreign learned societies into English ; the foreign 
learned societies translated the pamphlets of the native learned societies into all 
sorts of languages ; and thus commenced that celebrated scientific discussion so 
well knovra to all men, as the Pickwick controversy. 

But this base attempt to injure Mr. Pickwick, recoiled upon the head of its 
calumnious author. The seventeen learned societies unanimously voted the pre- 
sumptuous Blotton an ignorant meddler, and forthwith set to work upon more 
treatises than ever. And to this day the stone remains, an illegible monument of 
Mr. Pickwick’s greatness, and a lasting trophy to the littleness of his enemies. 


CHAPTER XII. 

DESCRIPTIVE OF A VERY IMPORTANT PROCEEDING ON THE PART OF MR. 
PICKWICK ; NO LESS AN EPOCH IN HIS LIFE, THAN IN THIS HISTORY. 

Mr. Pickwick’S apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited scale, were 
not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the 
residence of a man of his gen us and observation. His sitting-room was the first 
floor fi-ont, his bed-room the second floor front ; and thus, whether he were sitting 
^t his desk in his parlour, or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormiiory, 
he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous 
phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His 


Innocence in Danger. 


95 


landlady, Mrs. Bardell — the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house 
officer — was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with 
a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice, into an exqui- 
site talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other 
inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy ; the first a lodger, the 
second a production of Mrs. Bardell’s. The large man was always home precisely 
at ten o’clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the 
limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlour ; and the infantine sports 
and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neigh- 
bouring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the 
house ; and in it Mr. Pickwick’s will was law. 

To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the esta- 
blishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick’s mind, 
his appearance and behaviour on the morning previous to that which had been 
fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill, would have been most mysterious and 
unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his 
head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly 
refeired to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience 
very unusual with him. It was evident that something of gi*eat importance was 
in contemplation, but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself 
had been enabled to discover. 

“ Mrs. Bardell,” said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached 
the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment — 

“ Sir,” said Mrs. Bardell. 

“ Your little boy is a very long time gone.” 

“ Why it’s a good long way to the Borough, sir,” remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ very true ; so it is.” 

Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. 

“ Mrs. Bardell,” said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. 

“ Sir,” said Mrs. Bardell again. 

“ Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one ? ” 

“ La, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border of her 
cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twiiilde in the eyes of 
her lodger ; “ La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question !” 

“ Well, but do you ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ That depends — ” said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. 
Pickwick’s elbow, which was planted on the table — “ that depends a good deal 
upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick ; and whether it’s a saving and careful 
person, sir.” 

“ That’s very true,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ but the person I have in my eye (here 
he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) I think possesses these qualities ; and has, 
moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, 
Mrs. Bardell ; which may be of material use to me.” 

“ La, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell; the crimson rising to her cap-border 

again. . 

“ I do,” said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of 
a subject which interested him, “ I do, indeed ; and to tell you the tiuth, Mrs. 
Bardell, I have made up my mind.” 

“ Dear me, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. 

You’ll think it very strange now,” said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a 
good-humoured glance at his companion, “that I never consulted you about this 
matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your little boy out this momii^; 
-«h?” 


96 


The Pickwick Club. 


Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mi. 
Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to 
which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. 
Pickwick was going to propose— a deliberate plan, too — sent her little boy to the 
Borough, to get him out of the way — how thoughtful— how considerate ! 

“ Well,” said Air. Pickwick, “ what do you think ? ” 

“ Oh, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell, ti'embling with agitation, “ you’re 
very kind, sir.” 

“ It’ll save you a good deal of trouble, won’t it said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir,” replied Mrs. Bardell ; “ and, 
of course, I should take more trouble to please you then, than ever ; but it is so 
kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness.” 

“ Ah, to be sure,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ I never thought of that. When I am 
in town, you’ll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will.” 

“ I’m sure I ought to be a very happy woman,” said Mrs. Bardell. 

“ And your little boy — ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Bless his heart !” interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. 

“ He, too, will have a companion,” resumed Mr. Pickwick, “a lively one, 
who’ll teach him. I’ll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn 
in a year.” And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. 

“ Oh you dear — ” said Mrs. BardeU. 

Mr. Pickwick started. 

“ Oh you kind, good, playful dear,” said Mrs. Bardell ; and without more ado, 
she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick’s neck, with a 
cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. 

“ Bless my soul,” cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick ; — “ Mrs. Bardell my good 
woman — dear me, what a situation — pray consider. — Mrs. Bardell, don’t — if 
anybody should come — ” 

“ Oh, let them come,” exclaimed Airs. Bardell, frantically ; “ I’ll never leave 
you — dear, kind, good, soul ; ” and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the 
tighter. 

“ Mercy upon me,” said Air. Pickwick, struggling violently, “ I hear somebody 
coming up the stairs. Don’t, don’t, there’s a good creature, don’t.” But entreaty 
and remonstrance were alike unavailing : for Airs. Bardell had fainted in Air. 
Pickwick’s arms ; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Alaster 
Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Air. Winkle, and Air. Snod- 
grass. 

Air. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely 
burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without 
the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at 
him ; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at evei-ybody. 

The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of 
Air. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same 
relative situations until the suspended animation of the lady was restored, had it 
not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part 
of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corderoy, spangled with brass buttons 
of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain , 
but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal 
damage, pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering Air. Pickwick 
as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and 
butting forward with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman 
about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, 
and me violence of his excitement, allowed. 


97 


E-n gage men t of Mr. IVeLler by Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Take this little villain away,” said the agonised Mr. Pickwick, “ he’s mad.” 

” What /if the matter ?” said the three tongue-tied Pi ckwickians. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. “ Take away the boy ” (here 
Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the further 
end of the apartment). “Now, help me, lead this woman down stairs.” 

“ Oh, I am better now,” said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. 

“ Let me lead you down stairs,” said the ever gallant Mr. Tupman. 

“Thank you, sir — thank you;” exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. And 
clown stairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. 

“ I cannot conceive — ” said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned — “I can- 
not conceive what has been the matter with tlaat woman. I had merely announced 
to her my intention of keeping a man servant, when she fell into the extraordinary 
paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing.” 

“ Very,” said his three friends. 

“ Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,” continued Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Ver\%” was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked 
dubiously at each other. 

This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. 
They evidently suspected him. 

“ There is a man in the passage now,” said Mr. Tupman. 

“ It’s the man I spoke to you about,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ I sent for him to the 
Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass.” 

Mr. Snodgrass did as he was deshed ; and Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith pre- 
sented himself. 

“ Oh — you remember me, I suppose r ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I should think so,” replied Sam, with a patronising wink. “ Queer start that 
’ere, but he was one too many for you, warn’t he } Up to snuff and a pinch or 
two over — eh .?” 

“ Never mind that matter now,” said Mr. Pickwick hastily, “ I want to speak to 
you about something else. Sit down.” 

“ Thank ’ee, sir,” said Sam. And down he sat wuthout farther bidding, having 
previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside the door. “ Ta’nt a 
werry good ’un to look at,” said Sam, “ but it’s an astonishin’ ’un to wear; and 
afore the brim went, it was a werry handsome tile. Hows’ever it’s lighter without 
it, that ’s one thing, and every hole lets in some air, that ’s another — wentilation 
gossamer I calls it.” On the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agre..- 
ably upon the assembled Pickwickians. 

“Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concunence of these 
gentlemen, sent for you,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ That ’s the pint, sir,” interposed Sam ; “ out vith it, as the father said to the 
child, wen he swallowed a farden.” 

“ We want to know, in the first place,” said Mr. Pickwick, “whether you have 
any reason to be discontented with your present situation.” 

“ Afore I answers that ’ere question, gen’lm’n,” repliedMr. Weller, “/should 
like to know, in the first place, whether you’re a goin’ to purwide me wuth a 
better.” 

A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick’s features as he said, 
“ I have half made up my mind to engage you myself.” 

“ Have you, though said Sam. 

Mr. Piclcwick nodded in the affirmative. 

“ Wages inquired Sam. 

“ Twelve pounds a year,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Clothes ?” 


R 


98 


The Pickwick Club, 


•* Two suits.” 

“Work?” 

“ To attend upon me ; and travel about with me and these gentlemen here.” 

“Take the bill down,” said Sam, emphatically. “I’m let to a single gentle 
man, and the terms is agreed upon.” 

“You accept the situation ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“Certn’ly, replied Sam. “If the clothes fits me half as well as the place,, 
they’ll do.” 

“ You can get a character of course ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Ask the landlady o’ the White Hart about that, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ Can you come this evening ?” 

“ I’ll get into the clothes this minute, if they’re here,” said Sam with great 
alacrity. 

“ Call at eight this evening,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ and if the inquhies are satis- 
factory, they shall be provided.” 

With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in which an assistant 
housemaid had equally participated, the history of Mr. Weller’s conduct was so 
very blameless, that Mr. Pickwick felt fully justified in closing the engagement 
that very evening. With the promptness and energy which characterised not only 
the public proceedings, but all the private actions of this extraordinary man, he at 
once led his new attendant to one of those convenient emporiums where gentle- 
men’s new and second-hand clothes are provided, and the troublesome and incon- 
venient formality of measurement dispensed with ; and before night had closed in, 
Mr. Weller was furnished with a grey coat with the P. C. button, a black hat with 
a cockade to it, a pink striped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety 
of other necessaries, too numerous to recapitulate. 

“Well,” said that suddenly-transfonned individual, as he took his seat on the 
outside of the Eatanswill coach next morning; “ I wonder whether I’m meant to 
be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I looks like a sort of 
compo of every one on ’em. Never mind ; there ’s change of air, plenty to see, 
and little to do ; and all this suits my complaint uncommon ; so long life to the 
Pickvicks, says I ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

SOME ACCOUNT OF EATANSWILL ; OF THE STATE OF PARTIES THEREIN J AND 
OF THE ELECTION OF A MEMBER TO SERVE IN PARLIAMENT FOR THAT 
ANCIENT, LOYAL, AND PATRIOTIC BOROUGH. 

We will frankly acknowledge, that up to the period of our being first immersed in 
the voluminous papers of the Pickwick Club, we had never heard of Eatanswill ; 
we will with equal candour admit, that we have in vain searched for proof of the 
actual existence of such a place at the present day. Knowing the deep reliance to 
be placed on every note and statement of Mr. Pickwick’s, and not presuming to 
set up our recollection against the recorded declarations of that great man, we 
have consulted every authority, bearing upon the subject, to which we could pos- 
sibly refer. We have traced every name in schedules A and B, without meeting 
with that of Eatanswill ; we have minutely examined every comer of th» Pocket 
County Maps issued for the benefit of society by our distinguished publishers, and 
the same result has attended our investigation. We are therefore led to believe. 


The Blue Parity and the Bujf Party. 

tliat Mr. Pickwick, with that anxious desire to abstain from giving offence to any, 
and with those delicate feelings for which all who knew him well know he was so 
eminently remarkable, purposely substituted a fictitious designation, for the real 
name of the place in which his observations were made. We are confirmed in 
this belief by a little circumstance, apparently slight and trivial in itself, but when 
considered in this point of view, not undeserving of notice. In Mr. Pickwick’s 
note-book, we can just trace an entry of the fact, that the places of himself and 
followers were booked by the Norwich coach ; but this entry was afterwards lined 
through, as if for the purpose of concealing even the direction in which the borough 
is situated. We will not, therefore, hazard a guess upon the subject, but will at 
once proceed with this history ; content with the materials which its characters 
have provided for us. 

It appears, then, that the Eatanswill people, like the people of many other 
small towns, considered themselves of the utmost and most mighty importance, and 
that every man in Eatanswill, conscious of the weight that attached to his example, 
felt himself bound to unite, heart and soul, with one of the two great parties that 
divided the town — the Blues and the Buffs. Now the Blues lost no opportunity 
of opposing the Buffs, and the Buffs lost no opportunity of opposing the Blues ; and 
the consequence was, that whenever the Buffs and Blues met together at public 
meeting, Town-Hall, fair, or market, disputes and high words arose between them 
With these dissensions it is almost superfluous to say that eveiydhing in Eatanswill 
was made a party question. If the Buffs proposed to new skylight the market-place, 
the Blues got up public meetings, and denounced the proceeding ; if the Blue? 
proposed the erection of an additional pump in the High Street, the Bulls rose as 
one man and stood aghast at the enormity. There were Blue shops and Bufl 
shops, Blue inns and Buff inns ; — there was a Blue aisle and a Buff aisle, in the 
very chmch itself. 

Of course it was essentially and indispensably necessary that each of these 
powerful parties should have its chosen organ and representative : and, accord- 
ingly, there were two newspapers in the town — the EatansAvill Gazette and the 
Eatanswill Independent ; the fonner advocating Blue principles, and the latter 
conducted on grounds decidedly Buff. Fine newspapers they were. Such leading 
articles, and such spirited attacks ! — “ Our worthless contemporary, the Gazette ” 
— “That disgraceful and dastardly journal, the Independent” — “That false and 
scurrilous print, the Independent ” — “ That vile and slanderous calumniator, the 
Gazette ; ” these, and other spirit-stirring denunciations were strewn plentifully 
over the columns of each, in every number, and excited feelings of the most intense 
delight and indignation in the bosoms of the townspeople. 

Mr. Pickwick, with his usual foresight and sagacity, had chosen a peculiarly 
desirable moment for his visit to the borough. Never was such a contest known. 
The Honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, was the Blue candidate ; and 
Horatio Fizkin, Esq., of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, had been prevailed upon 
by his friends to stand forward on the Buff interest. The Gazette warned the 
electors of Eatanswill that the eyes not only of England, but of the whole civilised 
world, were upon them ; and the Independent imperatively demanded to know, 
whether the constituency of Eatanswill were the grand fellows they hr/^ always 
taken them for, or base and servile tools, undeserving alike of the name of V a'lisli- 
men and the blessings of freedom. Never had such a commotion ag/ . .od tire 
town before. 

It was late in the evening, when Mr. Pickwick and his companions, Jrjsisted by 
Sam, dismounted from the roof of the Eatanswill coach, l.arge bln silk flags 
were flying from the windows of the Town Arms Inn, and bills we t posted iu 
every sash, intimating, in gigantic letters, that the houauriiblc Samuel Slumkey’s 


TOO 


The Pickwick Club, 


Committ''c sat there daily. A crowd of idlers were assembled in the road, looking 
at a hoarse man in the balcony, who was apparently talking himself very red in 
the face in Mr. Slumkey’s behalf ; but the force and point of whose arguments 
were somewhat impaired by the perpetual beating of four large drums which 
Mr. Fizkin’s committee had stationed at the street comer. There was a busy little 
man beside him, though, who took off his hat at intervals and motioned to the 
people to cheer, which they regularly did, most enthusiastically ; and as the red- 
faced gentleman went on talking till he was redder in the face than ever, it seemed 
to answer his purpose quite as well as if anybody had heard him. 

The Pickwickians had no sooner dismounted, than they were surrounded by a 
branch mob of the honest and independent, who forthwitn set up three deafening 
cheers, which being responded to by the main body (for it’s not at all necessary 
for a crowd to know what they are cheering about) swelled into a tremendous roar 
of triumph, which stopped even the red-faced man in the balcony. 

“ Hurrah !” shouted the mob in conclusion. 

“ One cheer more,” screamed the little fugleman in the balcony, and out shouted 
the mob again, as if lungs were cast iron, with steel works. 

“ Slumkey for ever ! ” roared the honest and independent. 

“ Slumkey for ever ! ” echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat. 

“ No Fizkin !” roared the crowd. 

“ Certainly not ! ” shouted Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Hun-ah ! ” And then there was another roaring, like that of a whole mena- 
gerie when the elephant has rung the bell for the cold meat. 

** Who is Slumkey whispered Mr. Tupman. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Mr. Pickwick in the same tone. “ Hush. Don’t ask 
any questions. It’s always best on these occasions to do what the mob do.” 

“ But suppose there are two mobs suggested Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ Shout with the largest,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

Volumes could not have said more. 

They entered the house, the crowd opening right and left to let them pass, and 
cheering vociferously. The first object of consideration was to secure quarters for 
the night, 

“ Can we have beds here ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, summoning the waiter. 

“ Don’t know, sir, ” replied the man ; “ afraid we’re fuD, sir— I’ll inquire, sir.” 
Away he went for that purpose, and presently returned, to ask whether the gentle- 
men were “ Blue.” 

As neither Mr. Pickwick nor his companions took any vital interest in the cause 
of either candidate, the question was rather a difficult one to answer. In this 
dilemma Mr. Pickwick bethought himself of his new friend, Mr. Perker. 

“ Do you know a gentleman of the name of Perker ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Certainly, sir; honourable Mr. Samuel Slumkev’s agent.” 

“He is Blue, I think?” ^ ^ 

“ Oh yes, sir.” 

^ r Pickwick; but observing that the man locked 
rather doubtful at this accommodating announcement, he gave him his car l, and 
desired hffii to present it to Mr. Perker forthwith, if he should happen to be in he 
house. Tlie waiter retired; and re-appearing almost immediately with a reqi est 
uiat Mr. Pickwick would follow him, led the way to a large room on the first 
foor, where, seated at a long table covered with books and papers, was Mr. 
Perker. ^ ^ 

“Ah ah, my dear sir,” said the little man, advancing to meet him; “very 
happy to .see you, my dear sir, very. Pray sit down. So vou have carried yoiu 
intention into enect. lou have come down here to see an election eh ?” 


How to wor k ” an Election, lor 


Mr. PiclcAvick replied in the affirmative. 

“ Spirited contest, my dear sir,” said the little man. 

I am delighted to hear it,” said Air. Pickwick, rubbing his hands. “ I like to 
see sturdy pati'ictism, on whatever side it is called forth ; — and so it's a spirited 
contest .?” 

“ Oh yes,” said die little man, “ very much so indeed. We have opened all 
the public-houses in the place, and left oiu- adversary nothing but the beer-shops 
— masterly stroke of policy that, my dear sir, eh .?” — the little man smiled com- 
placently, and took a large pinch of snuff. 

“ And what are the probabilities as to the result of the contest ?” inquired Air. 
Pickwick. 

‘‘ Why doubtful, my dear sir; rather doubtful as yet,” replied the little man. 

' Fizkin’s people have got three-and-thirty voters in the lock-up coach-house at 
the WTiite Hart.” 

“In the coach-house!” said Mr. Pickwick, considerably astonished by this 
second stroke of policy. 

“ They keep ’em locked up there till they want ’em,” resumed the little man, 
“The effect of that is, you see, to prevent our getting at them; and even if we 
could, it would be of no use, for they keep them very drunk on purpose. Smart 
fellow Fizkin’s agent — very smart fellow indeed.” 

Mr. Pickwick stared, but said nothing. 

“ We are pretty confident, though,” said Mr. Perker, sinking his voice almost 
to a whisper. “We had a little tea-party here, last night — five-and-forty women, 
my dear sir — and gave every one of ’em a green parasol when she went away.” 

“ A parasol ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Fact, my dear sir, fact. Five-and-forty green parasols, at seven and sixpence 
a-piece. All women like finery, — extraordinary the effect of those parasols. 
Secured all their husbands, and half their brothers — beats stockings, and flannel, 
and all that sort of thing hollow. Aly idea, my dear sir, entirely. Hail, rain, or 
sunshine, you can’t walk half a dozen yards up the street, without encountering 
half a dozen green parasols.” 

Here the little man indulged in a convulsion of mirth, which was only checked 
by the entrance of a third party. 

This was a tall, thin man, with a sandy-coloured head inclined to baldness, and 
a face in which solemn importance was blended with a look of unfathomable 
profundity. He was dressed in a long brown surtout, with a black cloth waist- 
coat, and drab trousers. A double eye-glass dangled at his waistcoat : and on his 
head he wore a very low-crowned hat with a broad brim. The new-comer was 
introduced to Mr. Pickwick as Mr. Pott, the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette. 
After a few preliminary remarks. Air. Pott turned round to Mr. Pickwick, and 
said with solemnity — 

“ This contest excites great interest in the metropolis, sir ” 

“ I believe it does,” said Air. Pickwick. 

“ To which I have reason to know,” said Pott, looking towards Mr. Perker for 
corroboration, — “ to which I have reason to know that my article of last Saturday 
in some degree contributed.” 

“ Not the least doubt of it,” said the little man. 

“The press is a mighty engine, sir,” said Pott. 

Mr. Pickwick yielded his fullest assent to the proposition. 

“ But 1 trust, sir,” said Pott, “ that I have never abused the enormous poAver I 
wield. I trust, sir, that I have never pointed the noble instrument which is placed 
in my hands, against the sacred bosom of private life, or the tender breast of indi- 
vidual reputation ; — I trust, sir, that 1 tave devoted my energies to — to endeavouia 


102 


The Pickwick Club. 


— humble they may be, humble I know they are — to instil those principles of-« 
which — are — ” 

Here the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette, appearing to ramble, Mr. Pickwick 
<«ame to his relief, and said — 

“ Certainly.” 

“ And what, sir” — said Pott — “ what, sir, let me ask you as an impartial man. 
is the state of the public mind in London, with reference to my contest with the 
Independent ? ” 

“ Greatly excited, no doubt,” interposed Mr. Perker, with a look of slyness 
which was very likely accidental. 

“ The contest,” said Pott, “ shall be prolonged so long as I have health and 
strength, and that portion of talent with which I am gifted. From that contest, 
sir, although it may unsettle men’s minds and excite their feelings, and render 
them incapable for the discharge of the every-day duties of ordinary life ; from 
that contest, sir, I will never shrink, till I have set my heel upon the Eatanswill 
Independent. I wish the people of London, and the people of this countr)^ to 
know, sir, that they may rely upon me ; — that I will not desert them, that I am 
resolved to stand by them, sir, to the last.” 

“Your conduct is most noble, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick; and he grasped the 
hand of the magnanimous Pott. 

“You are, sir, I perceive, a man of sense and talent,” said Mr. Pott, almost 
breathless with the vehemence of his patriotic declaration. “I am most happy, 
sir, to make the acquaintance of such a man.” 

“And I,” said Mr. Pickwick, “feel deeply honoured by this expression of 
your opinion. Allow me, sir to introduce you to my fellow-travellers, the other 
corresponding members of the club I am proud to have founded.” 

“ I shall be delighted,” said Mr. Pott. 

Mr. Pickwick withdrew, and returning with his friends, presented them in 
due form to the editor of the Eatanswill Gazette. 

“Now my dear Pott,” said little Mr. Perker, “ the question is, what are we 
to do with our friends here ? ” 

“ We can stop in this house, I suppose,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Not a spare bed in the house, my dear sir— not a single bed.” 

“ Extremely awkward,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Very ; ” said his fellow-voyagers. 

“ I have an idea upon this subject,” said Mr. Pott, “ which I think may be 
very successfully adopted. They have two beds at the Peacock, and I can boldly 
say, on behalf of Mrs. Pott, that she will be delighted to accommodate Mr. Pick- 
wick and any of his friends, if the other two gentlemen and their servant do not 
object to shifting, as they best can, at the Peacock.” 

After repeated pressings on the part of Mr. Pott, and repeated protestations on 
that of Mr. Pickwick that he could not think of incommoding or troubling his 
amiable wife, it was decided that it was the only feasible arrangement that could be 
made. So it was made ; and after dining together at the Town Arms, the friends 
separated, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass repairing to the Peacoclc, and Mr. 
Pickwick and Mr. Winkle proceeding to the mansion of Mr. Pott ; it having been 
previously arranged that they should all re-assemble at the Town Arms in the 
morning, and accompany the honourable Samuel Slumkey’s procession to the place 
of nomination. 

Mr. Pott’s domestic circle was limited to himself and his wife. All men whom 
mighty genius has raised to a proud eminence in the world, have usually some 
little weakness which appears the more conspicuous from the contrast it presents 
to tixeir general character. If Mr. Pott had a weakness, it was, perhaps, that he 


Mr Pott and Mrs. Pott. 


was rather too submissive to the somewhat contemptuous control and sway of his 
wife. We do not feel justified in laying any particular stress upon the fact, because 
on the present occasion all Mrs. Pott’s most winning ways were brought into 
requisition to receive the two gentlemen. 

‘‘ My dear,” said Mr. Pott, “ Mr. Pickwick — Mr. Pickwick of London.” 

Mrs. Pott received Mr. Pickwick’s paternal grasp of the hand with enchanting 
sweetness : and Mr. Winlde, who had not been announced at all, slided and 
bowed, unnoticed, in an obscure comer. 

“ P. my dear — ” said Mrs. Pott. 

“ My life,” said Mr. Pott. 

“ Pray introduce the other gentleman.” 

“ T beg a thousand pardons,” said Mr. Pott. “ Permit me, Mrs. Pott, Mr. — ” 

“ Winkle,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Winkle,” echoed Mr. Pott ; and the ceremony of introduction was complete. 

“We owe you many apologies, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, “for distmrbing 
yom- domestic arrangements at so short a notice.” 

“ I beg you won’t mention it, sir,” replied the feminine Pott, with vivacity. 
“ It is a high treat to me, I assure you, to see any new faces ; living as I do, from 
day to day, and week to week, in this dull place, and seeing nobody.” 

“ Nobody, my dear ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pott, archly. 

“ Nobody hntj^ou,” retorted Mrs. Pott, with asperity. 

“You see, Mr. Pickwick,” said the host in explanation of his wife’s lament, 
“ that we are in some measure cut off from many enjoyments and pleasures of 
which we might otherwise partake. My public station, as editor of the Eatanswill 
Gazette, the position which that paper holds in the country, my constant immer- 
sion in the vortex of politics — ” 

“ P. my dear — ” interposed Mrs. Pott. 

“ My life — ” said the editor. 

“ I wish, my dear, you would endeavour to find some topic of conversation in 
which these gentlemen might take some rational interest.” 

“ But my love,” said Mr. Pott, with great humility, “ Mr. Pickwick does take 
an interest in it.” 

“ It’s well for him if he can,” said Mrs. Pott, emphatically ; “lam wearied out 
of my life with your politics, and quan els with the Independent, and nonsense. I 
am quite astonished P. at your making such an exhibition of your absurdity.” 

“ But my dear — ” said Mr. Pott. 

“ Oh, nonsense, don’t talk to me ; ” said Mrs. Pott. “ Do you play ecarte, sir ? ” 
I shall be very happy to learn under your tuition,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“ Well, then, draw that little table into this window, and let me get out of hear- 
ing of those prosy politics.” 

“Jane,” said Mr. Pott, to the servant who brought in candles, “ go down into 
the office, and bring me up the file of the Gazette for Eighteen Hundred and 
Twenty Eight. I’ll read you — ” a:dded the editor, turning to Mr. Pickwick, 
“ I’ll just read you a few of the leaders I wrote at that time upon the Buff 
job ot appointing a new tollman to the turnpike here ; I rather think they’U 
amuse you.” 

“ I should like to hear them very much, indeed,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Up came the file, and down* sat the editor, with Mr. Pickwick at his side. 

We have in vain pored over the leaves of Mr. Pickwick’s note-book, in the hope 
of meeting with a general summary of these beautiful compositions. We have 
every reason to believe that he was perfectly enraptured with the vigour and fresh- 
ness of the style ; indeed Mr. Winkle has recorded the fact that his eyes were 
c iosed, as if with excess of pleasure, during the whole time of their perusal. 


r04 


The Pickwick Clul. 


The announcement of supper put a stop both to the game at ecarte, and the re- 
capitulation of the beauties of the Eatanswill Gazette. Mrs. Pott was in the highest 
spirits and the most agreeable humour. Mr. Winkle had already made con- 
siderable progress in her good opinion, and she did not hesitate to inform him, 
confidentially, that Mr. Pickwick was “ a delightful old dear.” These terms con- 
vey a familiarity of expression, in which few of those who w^ere intimately acquainted 
with that colossal-minded man, would have presumed to indulge. We have pre- 
served them, nevertheless, as affording at once a touching and a convincing proof 
of the estimation in which he was held by every class of society, and the ease with 
which he made his way to their hearts and feelings. 

It was a late hour of the night — long after Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had 
fallen asleep in the inmost recesses of the Peacock — when the two friends retired 
to rest. Slumber soon fell upon the senses of Mr. Winkle, but his feelings had 
been excited, and his admiration roused ; and for many hours after sleep had ren- 
dered him insensible to earthly objects, the face and figure of the agreeable Mrs. 
Pott presented themselves again and again to his wandering imagination. 

The noise and bustle which ushered in the morning, were sufficient to dispel 
from the mind of the most romantic visionary in existence, any associations but 
those which were immediately connected with the rapidly-approaching election. 
The beating of drums, the blowing of horns and trumpets, the shouting of 
men, and tramping of horses, echoed and re-echoed through the streets from the 
earliest dawn of day ; and an occasional fight between the light skirmishers of 
either party at once enlivened the preparations and agieeabiy diversified their 
character. 

“ Well, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, as his valet appeared at his bed-room door, 
just as he was concluding his toilet ; “all alive to-day, I suppose ? ” 

“ Reg’lar game, sir,” replied Mr. Weller ; “ our people’s a col-lecting down at 
the Town Arms, and they’re a hollering themselves hoarse already.” 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ do they seem devoted to their party, Sam ? ” 

“ Never see such dewotion in my life, sir.” 

“ Energetic, eh ? ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Uncommon,” replied Sam ; “I never see men eat and drink so much afore. 
I wonder they a’nt afeer’d o’ bustin.” 

“ That’s the mistaken kindness of the gentry here,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Wery likely,” replied Sam, briefly. 

“ Fine, fresh, hearty fellows they seem,” said Mr. Pickwick, glancing from the 
window, 

“ Wery fresh,” replied Sam ; “ me, and the two waiters at the Peacock, has 
been a pumpin’ over the independent woters as supped there last night.” 

“ Pumping over independent voters ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Yes,” said his attendant, “ every man slept vere he fell do\\Ti ; we dragged 
’em out, one by one, this mornin’, and put ’em under the pump, and they’re in 
reg’lar fine order, now. Shillin’ a head the committee paid for that ’ere job.” 

“ Can such things be ! ” exclaimed the astonished Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Lord bless your heart, sir,” said Sam, “ why where was you half baptized ?— 
that’s nothin’, that a’nt.” 

“ Nothing ? ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Nothin’ at all, sir,” replied his attendant. The night afore the last day o’ 
the last election here, the opposite party bribed the bar-maid at the Town Arms, 
to hocus the brandy and water of lomteen unpolled electors as was a btoppin’ in 
the house.” 

“What do you mean by ‘hocussing ’ brandy and water ? ” inquired Ml. Pick 

wick. 


Ml . Weller vn the Conveyance oj Foters. i 

“ Puttin’ laud’num in it,” replied Sam. “ Blessed if she didn’t send ’em all to 
jleep till twelve hours arter the election was over. They took one man up to the 
booth, in a truck, fast asleep, by way of experiment, but it was no go — they 
wouldn’t poll him ; so they brought him back, and })ut him to bed again.” 

“ Strange practices, these,” said Mr. Pickwick ; half speaking to himself and 
half addressing Sam. 

“Not half so strange as a miraculous circumstance as happened to my own 
father, at an election time, in tltis weny place, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ \\Tiat was that } ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Why he drove a coach down here once,” said Sam ; “ ’lection time came on, 
and he was engaged by vun party to bring down woters from London. Night 
afore he was a going to drive up, committee on t’other side sends for him quietly, 
and away he goes vith the messenger, who shows him in ; — large room — lots of 
gen’l’m’n — heaps of papers, pens and ink, and all that ’ere. ‘ Ah, Mr. Weller,’ 
says the gen’l’m’n in the chair, ‘ glad to see you, sir ; how are you ? ’ — ‘ Werry 
well, thank’ee, sir,’ says my father; ‘I hope jyou' re pretty middlin,’ says he — 
‘ Pretty well, thank’ee, sir,’ says the gen’l’m’n; ‘sit down, Mr. Weller — pray sit 
down, sir.’ So my father sits down, and he and the gen’l’m’n looks werry hard at 
each other. ‘You don’t remember me .^ ’ says the gen’l’m’n. — ‘ Can’t say I do,’ 
says my father — ‘ Oh, I know you,’ says the gen’l’m’n ; ‘ know’d you when you 
was a boy,’ says he. — ‘ Well, I don’t remember you,’ says my father — ‘ That’s veiy 
odd,’ says the gen’l’m’n — ‘ Weiry,’ says my father — ‘ You must have a bad mem’ry, 
Mr. Weller,’ says the gen’l’m’n — ‘ Well, it is a wery bad ’un,’ says my father — ‘ I 
thought so,’ says the gen’l’m’n. So then they pours him out a glass of wine, and 
gammons him about his driving, and gets him into a reg’lar good humour, and at 
last shoves a twenty pound note in his hand. ‘ It’s a werry bad road between this 
and London,’ says the gen’l’m’n — ‘Here and there it /k a heavy road,’ says my 
father — ‘ ’Specially near the canal, I think,’ says the gen’l’m’n — ‘Nasty bit that 
’ere,’ says my father — ‘ Well, Mr. Weller,’ says the gen’l’m’n, ‘ you’re a wery good 
whip, and can do what you like with your horses, we know. We’re all wery fond 
o’ you, Mr. Weller, so in case you should have an accident when you’re a bringing 
these here woters down, and should tip ’em over into the canal vithout hurtin’ of 
’em, this is for yourself,’ says he — ‘ Gen’i’m’n, you’re wery kind,’ says my father, 
‘and I’ll drink your health in another glass of wine,’ says he; wich he did, and 
• then buttons up the money, and bows himself out. Y’'ou wouldn’t believe, sir,” 
continued Sam, with a look of inexpressible impudence at his master, “ that op 
the wery day as he came down with them woters, li is coach was upset on that 
’ere wery spot, and ev’ry man on ’em was turned into the canal.” 

“ And got out again } ” inquired Mr. Pickwick, hastily. 

“ Why,” replied Sam, very slowly, “ I rather think one old gen’l’m’n was 
missin’ ; I know his hat was found, but I a’n’t quite certain whether his head was 
in it or not. But what I look at, is the hex-traordinary, and wonderful coinci- 
dence, that arter what that gen’l’m’n said, my father’s coach should be upset in 
tliat wery place, and on that wery day ! ” 

“ It is, no doubt, a very extraordinary circumstance indeed,” said Mr. Pickwick. 
“ But brush my hat, Sam, for I hear Mr. Winkle calling me to breakfast.” 

With these words Mr. Pickwick descended to the parlour, where he found 
breakfast laid, and the family already assembled. The meal was hastily despatched ; 
each of the gentleman’s hats was decorated with an enormous blue favour, made 
up by the fair hands of Mrs. Pott herself ; and as Mr. Winlde had undertaken to 
escort that lady to a house-top, in the immediate vicinity of the hustings, Mr. 
Pickwick and Mr. Pott repaired alone to the Town Arms, from the back window 
of which, one of Mr. Slumkey’s committee was addressing six small boys, 


The Pickwick Club, 


io6 


and one girl, whom he dignified, at every second sentence, with the imposing 
title of “ men of Eatanswill,” whereat the six small boys aforesaid cheered pro- 
digiously. 

The stable-yard exhibited unequivocal symptoms of the glory and strength of 
the Eatanswill Blues. There was a regular army of blue flags, some with one 
handle, and some with two, exhibiting appropriate devices, in golden characters 
four feet high, and stout in proportion. There was a grand band of trumpets, 
bassoons and drums, marshalled four abreast, and earning their money, if ever 
men did, especially the drum beaters, who were very muscular. There were 
bodies of constables with blue staves, twenty committee-men with blue scarfs, 
and a mob of voters with blue cockades. There were electors on horseback, 
and electors a-foot. There was an open carriage and four, for the honourable 
Samuel Slumkey ; and there were four carriages«and pair, for his friends and 
supporters ; and the flags were rustling and the band was playing, and the com 
stables were swearing, and the twenty a >mmittee-nien were squabbling, and the 
mob were shouting, and the horses were backing, and the post-boys perspiring ; 
and eveiybody, and everything, then and there assembled, was for the special 
use, behoof, honour, and reno\vn, of the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey 
Hall, one of the candidates for the representation of the Borough of Eatanswill, 
in the Commons House of Parliament of the United Kingdom. 

Loud and long were the cheers, and mighty was the rustling of one of the blue 
flags, with “ Liberty of the Press ” inscribed thereon, when the sandy head of 
Mr. Pott was discerned in one of the windows, by the mob beneath ; and tremen- 
dous was the enthusiasm when the honourable Samuel Slumkey himself, in top- 
boots, and a blue neckerchief, advanced and seized the hand of the said Pott, and 
melodramatically testified by gestiures to the crowd, his ineffaceable obligations to 
the Eatanswill Gazette. 

“ Is everything ready ? ” said the honourable Samuel Slumkey to Mr. Perker. 

“ Everything, my dear sir,” was the little man’s reply. 

“ Nothing has been omitted, I hope ? ” said the honourable Samuel Slumkey. 

“ Nothing has been left undone, my dear sir — nothing whatever. There are 
twenty washed men at the street door for you to shake hands with ; and six 
children in arms that you’re to pat on the head, and inquire the age of ; be par- 
ticular about the children, my dear sir, — it has always a gieat effect, that sort of 
thing.” 

“ I’ll take care,” said the honourable Samuel Slumkey. 

“ And, perhaps, my dear sir — ” said the cautious little man, “ perhaps if you 
could — I don’t mean to say it’s indispensable — but if you could manage to kiss one 
of ’em, it would produce a very gi-eat impression on the crowd.” 

“ Wouldn’t it have as good an effect if the proposer or seconder did that ? ” 
said the honourable Samuel Slumkey. 

“ Why, I am afraid it wouldn’t,” replied the agent ; “ if it were done by your- 
self, my dear sir, I think it would make you very popular.” 

“ Very well,” said the honourable Samuel Slumkey, with a resigned air, “then 
it must be done. That’s all.” 

“ Arrange the procession,” cried the twenty committee-men. 

Amidst the cheers of the assembled throng, the band, and the constables, and 
the committee-men, and the voters, and the horsemen, and the carriages, took 
their places — tjach of the two-horse vehicles being closely packed with as many 
gentlemen as could manage to stand upright in it; and that assigned to Mr. 
Perker, containing Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, Mr. Snodgiass, and about half a 
dozen of the committee beside. 

There was a moment of awful suspense as the procession waited for the 


Electioneering Progress. iqj 

honourable Samuel Slum key to step into his carriage. Suddenly the ciowd set 
up a great cheering. 

“ He has come out,” said little Air. Perker, greatly excited ; the more so as their 
position did not enable them to see what was going forward. 

Another cheer, much louder. 

“ He has has shaken hands with the men,” cried the Jittle agent. 

Another cheer, far more vehement. 

“ He has patted the babies on the head,” said Mr. Perker, frembling witn 
anxiety. 

A roar of applause that rent the air. 

“ He has kissed one of ’em ! ” exclaimed the delighted little man. 

A second roar. 

“ He has kissed another,” gasped the excited manager. 

A third roar. 

“ He’s kissing ’em all ! ” screamed the enthusiastic little gentleman. _And 
hailed by the deafening shouts of the multitude, the procession moved on. 

How or by what means it became mixed up with the other procession, and how 
it was ever extricated from the confusion consequent thereupon, is more than we 
can undertake to describe, inasmuch as Mr. Pickwick’s hat was knocked over his 
eyes, nose, and mouth, by one poke of a Buff flag-staff, veiy^ early in the proceed- 
ings. He describes himself as being surrounded on every side, when he could 
catch a glimpse of the scene, by angiy and ferocious countenances, by a vast cloud 
of dust, and by a dense crowd of combatants. He represents himself as being 
forced from the carriage by some unseen power, and being personally engaged ir 
a pugilistic encounter ; but with whom, or how, or why, he is whoUy unable tc 
state. He then felt himself forced up some wooden steps by the persons from 
behind ; and on removing his hat, found himself surrounded by his friends, in the 
very front of the left hand side of the hustings. The right was reserved for the 
Buff party, and the centre for the Mayor and his officers ; one of whom — the fat 
crier of Eatanswill — was ringing an enormous bell, by way of commanding silence, 
while Mr. Horatio Fizkin, and the honourable Samuel Slumkey, with their hands 
upon their hearts, were bowing with the utmost affability to the troubled sea of heads 
that inundated the open space in front; and from whence arose a storm of groans, 
and shouts, and yells, and hootings, that would have done honour to an earthquake, 

“ There’s Winkle,” said Mr. Tupman, pulling his friend by the sleeve. 

“Where ?” said Mr.Pickwick, putting on his spectacles, which he had fortu- 
nately kept in his pocket hitherto. 

“There,” said Air. Tupman, “on the top of that house.” And there, sure 
enough, in the leaden gutter of a tiled roof, were Mr. Winkle and Mrs. Pott, 
comfortably seated in a couple of chairs, waving their handkerchiefs in token of 
recognition — a compliment which Air. Pickwick returned by kissing his hand to 
the lady. 

The proceedings had not yet commenced ; and as an inactive crowd is generally 
disposed to be jocose, this very innocent action was sufficient to awaken their 
facetiousness. 

“ Oh you wicked old rascal,” cried one voice, “ looking arter the girls, are you.?” 

“ Oh you wenerable sinner,” cried another. 

“ Putting on his spectacles to look at a married ’ooman ! ” said a third. 

“ I see him a winkin’ at her, with his wicked old eye,” shouted a fourth. 

“ Look arter your wife, Pott,” bellowed a fifth ; — and then there was a roar of 
laughter. 

As these taunts were accompanied with invidious comparisons between Mr. 
Pickwick and an aged ram, and several witticisms of the like nature ; and as they 


io8 


The Pickwick Club. 


moreover rather tended to convey reflections upon the honour of an innocent 
lady, Mr. Pickwick’s indijpiation’ was excessive ; but as silence was proclaimed 
at the moment, he contented himself by scorching the mob with a look oi 
pity for their misguided minds, at which they laughed more boisterously than ever 

“ Silence ! ” roared the mayor’s attendants. 

“Whiffin, proclaim silence/’ said the mayor, wdth an air of pomp befitting his 
lofty station. In obedience to this command the crier performed another concerto 
on the bell, whereupon a gentleman in the crowed called out “ muffins ; ” which 
occasioned another laugh. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the Mayor, at as loud a pitch as he could possibly force his 
voice to, “ Gentlemen. Brother electors of the Borough of Eatanswill. We 
are met here to-day for the purpose of choosing a representative in the room of 
our late — ” 

Here the Mayor was interrupted by a voice in the crowd. 

“ Suc-cess to the Mayor ! ” cried the voice, “ and may he never desert the nail 
and sarspan business, as he got his money by.” 

This allusion to the professional pursuits of the orator was received with a storm 
of delight, which, with a bell-accompaniment, rendered the remainder of his 
speech inaudible, with the exception of the concluding sentence, in which he 
thanked the meeting for the patient attention with which they had heard Irm 
throughout, — an expression of gratitude which elicited another burst of m»th, 
of about a quarter of an hour’s duration. 

Next, a tall thin gentleman, in a very stiff white neckerchief, after being 
repeatedly desired by the crowd to “ send a boy home, to ask whether he hadn’t 
left his woice under the pillow,” begged to nominate a fit and proper person to 
represent them in Parliament. And when he said it was Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, 
of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, the Fizkinites applauded, and the Slumkeyites 
groaned, so long, and so loudly, that both he and the seconder might have sung 
comic songs in lieu of speaking, without anybody’s being a bit the wiser. 

The friends of Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, having had their innings, a little 
choleric, pink-faced man stood forward to propose another fit and proper person to 
represent the electors of Eatanswill in Parliament ; and veiy^ swimmingly the pink- 
faced gentleman would have got on, if he had not been rather too choleric to 
entertain a sufficient perception of the fun of the crowd. But after a very few 
sentences of figurative eloquence, the pink-faced gentleman got from denouncing 
those who inteiTupted him in the mob, to exchanging defiances with the gentle- 
men on the hustings ; whereupon arose an uproar which reduced him to the 
necessity of expressing his feelings by serious pantomime, which he did, and then 
left the stage to his seconder, who delivered a written speech of half an hour’s 
length, and wouldn’t be stopped, because he had sent it all to the Eatanswill 
Gazette, and the Eatanswill Gazette had already printed it, every word. 

Then Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, near Eatanswill, presented 
himself for the puipose of addressing the electors ; which he no sooner did, than 
the band employed by the honourable Samuel Slumkey, commenced performing 
with a power to which their strength in the morning was a trifle ; in return for 
which, the Buff crowd belaboured the heads and shoulders of the Blue crowd ; 
on which the Blue crowd endeavoured to dispossess themselves of their very 
unpleasant neighbours the Buff crowd ; and a scene of struggling, and pushing, 
and fighting, succeeded, to which we can no more do justice than the Mayor 
could, although he issued imperative orders to twelve constables to seize the ring- 
leaders, who might amount in number to two hundred and fifty, or thereabouts. 
At all these encountps, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, and his friends, 
waxed fierce and furious ; until at last Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, 


Patriotic triuynph of the SlurriRe'y Party. 


109 


to ask his opponent the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall, 
whether that band played by his consent ; which question the honourable Samuel 
Slumkey declining to answer, Horotio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, shooV 
his fist in the countenance of the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall ; 
upon which the honourable Samuel Slumkey, his blood being up, defied Horatio 
Fizkin, Esquire, to mortal combat. At this violation of all known rules and pre- 
cedents of order, the Mayor commanded another fantasia on the bell, and declared 
that he would bring before himself, both Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin 
Lodg' ’ -1 ’ ’ ’ ’ Qf Slumkey Hall, and bind them 



denunciation, the supporters of the 


over 


two candidates interfered, and after the friends of each party had quan-elled in 
]>airs, for three-quarters of an hour, Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, touched his hat to 
the honourable Samuel Slumkey : the honourable Samuel Slumkey touched his 
to Horatio Fizkin, Esquire: the band was stopped: the crowd were partially 
quieted : and Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, was permitted to proceed. 

The speeches of the two candidates, though differing in every other respect, 
afforded a beautiful tribute to the merit and high worth of the electors of Eatans- 
will. Both expressed their opinion that a more independent, a more enlightened, 
a more public-spirited, a more noble-minded, a more disinterested set of men than 
those who had promised to vote for him, never existed on earth ; each darkly 
hinted his suspicions that the electors in the opposite interest had certain swinish 
and besotted infirmities which rendered them unfit for the exercise of the important 
duties they were called upon to discharge. Fizkin expressed his readiness to do 
anything he was wanted ; Slumkey, his determination to do nothing that was 
asked of him. Both said that the trade, the manufactures, the commerce, the 
prosperity of Eatanswill, would ever be dearer to their hearts than any earthly 
object ; and each had it in his power to state, with the utmost confidence, that he 
was the man who would eventually be returned. 

There was a show of hands ; the Mayor decided in favour of the honourable 
Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hall. Horatio Fizkin, Esquire, of Fizkin Lodge, 
demanded a poll, and a poll was fixed accordingly. Then a vote of thanks was 
moved to the Mayor for his able conduct in the chair ; and the Mayor devoutly 
wishing that he had had a chair to display his able conduct in (for he had been 
standing during the whole proceedings), returned thanks. The processions re- 
formed, the carriages rolled slowly through the crowd, and its members screeched 
and shouted after them as their feelings or caprice dictated. 

During the whole time of the polling, the town was in a perpetual fever of ex- 
citement. Everything was conducted on the most liberal and delightful scale. 
Exciseable articles were remarkably cheap at all the public-houses ; and spring 
vans paraded the streets for the accommodation of voters who were seized with 
any temporary dizziness in the head — an epidemic which prevailed among the 
electors, during the contest, to a most alarming extent, and under the influence of 
which they might frequently be seen lying on the pavements in a state of utter 
insensibility. A small body of electors remained unpolled on the very last day. 
They were calculating and reflecting persons, who had not yet been convinced by 
the arguments of either party, although they had had frequent conferences with 
each. One hour before the close of the poll, Mr. Perker solicited the honour of a 
pi ivate interview with these intelligent, these noble, these patriotic men. It was 
granted. His arguments were brief, but satisfactory. They went in a body to the 
poll ; and when they returned, the honourable Samuel Slumkey, of Slumkey Hail, 
was returned also. 


The Pickwick Club. 


uo 


CHAPTER XIV. 

COMPRISING A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF THE COMPANY AT THE PEACOCK 
ASSEMBLED ; AND A TALE TOLD BY A BAGMAN. 

It is pleasant to turn from contemplating the strife and turmoil of political exist- 
ence, to the peaceful repose of private life. Although in reality no great partisan 
of either side, Mr. Pickwick was sufficiently fired with Mr. Pott’s enthusiasm, to 
apply his whole time and attention to the proceedings, of which the last chapter 
affords a description compiled from his own memoranda. Nor while he was thus 
occupied was Mr. Winkle idle, his whole time being devoted to pleasant walks 
and short country excursions with Mrs. Pott, who never failed, when such an 
opportunity presented itself, to seek some relief from the tedious monotony she so 
constantly complained of. The two gentlemen being thus completely domesti- 
cated in the Editor’s house, Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were in a great 
measure cast upon their own resources. Taking but little interest in public affairs, 
they beguiled their time chiefly with such amusements as the Peacock afforded, 
which were limited to a bagatelle-board in the first floor, and a sequestered skittle- 
ground in the back yard. In the science and nicety of both these lecreations, 
which are far more abstruse than ordinary men suppose, they were gradually 
initiated by Mr. Weller, who possessed a perfect knowledge of such pastimes. 
Thus, notwithstanding that they were in a great measure deprived of the comfort 
and advantage of Mr. Pickwick’s society, they were still enabled to beguile the 
time, and to prevent its hanging heavily on their hands. 

It was in the evening, however, that the Peacock presented attractions which 
enabled the two friends to resist even the invitations of the gifted, though prosy, 
Pott. It was in the evening that the “ commercial room ” was filled with a social 
circle, whose characters and manners it was the delight of Mr. Tupman to observe ; 
whose sayings and doings it was the habit of Mr. Snodgrass to note down. 

Most people know what sort of places commercial rooms usually are. That of 
the Peacock differed in no material respect from the generality of such apartments ; 
that is to say, it was a large bare-looking room, the furniture of which had no 
doubt been better when it was newer, with a spacious table in the centre, and a 
variety of smaller dittos in the comers : an extensive assortment of variously 
shaped chairs, and an old Turkey carpet, bearing about the same relative pro- 
portion to the si/e of the room, as a lady’s pocket-handkerchief might to the ffoor 
of a watch-box. The walls were garnished with one or two large maps ; and 
several weather-beaten rough great coats, with complicated capes, dangled from a 
long row of pegs in one corner. The mantelshelf was ornamented with a wooden 
. inkstand, containing one stump of a pen and half a wafer : a road-book and 
directory ; a county history minus the cover : and the mortal remains of a ti out in 
a glass coffin. The atmosphere was redolent of tobacco-smoke, the fumes oi 
which had communicated a rather dingy hue to the whole room, and more espe- 
cially to the dusty red curtains which shaded the windows. On the sideboard a 
variety of miscellaneous articles were huddled together, the most conspicu'^us of 
which were some very cloudy fish-sauce cruets, a couple of driving-boxes, two or 
three whips, and as many travelling shawls, a tray of knives and forks, and the 
mustard. 

Here it was that Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass were seated on the evening 
alter the conclusion of the election, with several other temporai-y inmates Oi the 
house, smoldng and drinliing. 


Mr. Snodgrass the Champion of the Fair. 


Ill 


“ Well, gents,” said a stout, hale personage of about forty, with only one eye — 
a verj" bright black eye, which twinkled with a roguish expression of fun" and 
good humour, “ our noble selves, gents. I always propose that toast to the com- 
pany, and drink Mary to myself. Eh, Mary ! ” 

“ Get along with you, you wretch,” said the hand-maiden, obviously not ill 
pleased with the compliment, however. 

“ Don’t go away, Mary,” said the black-eyed man. 

“ Let me alone, imperence,” said the young lady. 

“ Never mind,” said the one-eyed man, calling after the girl as she left the 
room. “ I’ll step out by and by, Mary. Keep your spirits up, dear.” Here he 
went through the not very difficult process of winking upon the company with his 
solitary eye, to the enthusiastic delight of an elderly personage with a dirty face 
and a clay pipe. 

“ Rum creeters is women,” said the dirty-faced man, after a pause. 

“ Ah ! no mistake about that,” said a very red-faced man, behind a cigar. 

After this little bit of philosophy there was another pause. 

“ There’s rammer things than women in this world though, mind you,” said 
the man with the black eye, slowly filling a large Dutch pipe, with a most capa- 
cious bowl. 

“ Are you married } ” inquired the dirty-faced man. 

“ Can’t say I am.” 

“ I thought not.” Here the dirty-faced man fell into fits of mirth at his 
owm retort, in which he was joined by a man of bland voice and placid counte- 
nance, who always made it a point to agree with everybody. 

“ Women, after all, gentlemen,” said the enthusiastic Mr. Snodgrass, “ are the 
great props and comforts of our existence.” 

“ So they are,” said the placid gentleman. 

“ When they’re in a good humour,” interposed the dirty-faced man. 

“ And that’s veiy true,” said the placid one. 

“ I repudiate that qualification,” said Mr. Snodgrass, whose thoughts were fast 
reverting to Emily Wardle, “ I repudiate it with disdain — with indignation. Show 
me the man who says anything against women, as women, and I boldly declare 
he is not a man.” And Mr. Snodgrass took his cigar from his mouth, and stinick 
the table violently with his clenched fist. 

That’s good sound argument,” said the placid man. 

“ Containing a position which I deny,” interrupted he of tire dirty counte- 
nance. 

“ And there’s certainly a very great deal of truth in what you observe too, sir,” 
said the placid gentleman. 

“ Your health, sir,” said the bagman with the lonely e)^e, bestowing an 
approving nod on Mr. Snodgrass. 

Jdr. Snodgrass acknowledged the compliment. 

“ I always like to hear a good argument,” continued the bagman, “ a sharp 
one, like this ; it’s very improving ; but this little argument about women brought 
to my mind a story I have heard an old uncle of mine tell, the recollection of 
which, just now, made me say there were rummer things than women to be met 
with, sometimes.” 

“ I should like to hear that same story,” said the red-faced man with the cigar. 

“ Should you .?” was the only reply of the bagman, who continued to smoke 
with great vehemence. 

“ So should I,” said Mr. Tupman, speaking for the first time He was always 
araious to increase his stock of experience. 

“ Should ? Well then, I’ll tell it. No I won’t. I know you won’t believe 


The Pickwick Club. 


Ill 

it,” said the man with the roguish eye, making that organ look more roguish 
than ever. 

“ If you say it’s true, of course I shall,” said Mr. Tupman. 

“ Well, upon that understanding I’ll tell you,” replied the traveller. “ Did 
you ever hear of the great commercial house of Bilson and Slum } But it doesn’t 
matter though, whether you did or not, because they retired from business long 
since. It’s eighty years ago, since the circumstance happened to a traveller for that 
house, but he was a particular friend of my uncle’s ; and my uncle told the story 
to me. It’s a queer name ; but he used to call it 

THE BAGMAN’S STORY, 

and he used to tell it, something in this way. 

“ One winter’s evening, about five o’clock, just as it began to grow dusk, a 
man in a gig might have been seen urging his tired horse along the road which 
leads across Marlborough Downs, in the direction of Bristol. I say he might 
have been seen, and I have no doubt he would have been, if anybody but a blind 
man had happened to pass that way ; but the weather was so bad, and the night 
so cold and wet, that nothing was out but the water, and so the traveller jogged 
along in the middle of the road, lonesome and dreary enough. If any bagman of 
that day could have caught sight of the little neck-or-nothing sort of gig, with a 
clay-coloured body and red wheels, and the vixenish ill-tempered, fast-going bay 
mare, that looked like a cross between a butcher’s horse and a two penny post- 
office pony, he would have knowm at once, that this traveller could have been no 
other than Tom Smart, of the great house of Bilson and Slum, Cateaton 
Street, City. However, as there was no bagman to look on, nobody knew any- 
thing at all about the matter ; and so Tom Smart and his clay-coloured gig with 
the red wheels, and the vixenish mare with the fast pace, went on together, 
keeping the secret among them : and nobody was a bit the wiser. 

“ There are many pleasanter places even in this dreaiy world, than Marlborough 
Downs when it blows hard ; and if you throw in beside, a gloomy winter’s even- 
ing, a miry and sloppy road, and a pelting fall of heavy rain, and try the effect, by 
way of experiment, in your own proper person, you will experience the full force 
of this observation. 

“ The wind blew — not up the road or down it, though that’s bad enough, bat 
sheer across it, sending the rain slanting down like the lines they used to rule in 
the copybooks at school, to make the boys slope well. For a moment it would 
die away, and the traveller would begin to delude himself into the belief that, 
exhausted with its previous fury, it had quietly lain itself down to rest, when, 
whoo ! he would hear it growling and whistling in the distance, and on it would 
come rushing over the hill-tops, and sweeping along the plain, gathering sound 
and strength as it drew nearer, until it dashed with a heavy gust against horse apd 
man, driving the sharp rain into their ears, and its cold damp breath into their 
very bones ; and past them it would scour, far, far away, with a stunning roar, as 
if in ridicule of their weakness, and triumphant in the consciousness of its own 
strength and power. 

“ The bay mare splashed away, through the mud and water, with drooping ears ; 
now and then tossing her head as if to express her disgust at this very ungentle- 
manly behaviour of the elements, but keeping a good pace notwithstanding, until 
a gust of wind, more furious than any that had yet assailed them, caused her to 
Stop suddenly and plant her four feet firmly against the gi'ound, to prevent her 
being blown over. It’s a special mercy that she did this, for if she had been 
Vdown over, the vixenish mare was so light, and the gig was so light, and Torn 


Snugly housed. 


ijn 

Smart such a light weight into the bargain, that they must infallibly have all gone 
roJiing over and over together, until they reached the confines of earth, or 
until the wind fell ; and in either case the probability is, that neither the vixenish 
mare, nor the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels, nor Tom Smart, would ever 
have been fit for service again. 

“ ‘ Well, damn my straps and whiskers,’ says Tom Smart, (Tom sometimes had 
an unpleasant knack of swearing), ‘ Damn my straps and whiskers,’ says Tom, 
‘ if this ain’t pleasant, blow me ! ’ 

“ You’ll very likely ask me why, as Tom Smart had been pretty well blown 
already, he expressed this wish to be submitted to the same process again. I can’t 
say — -all I know is, that Tom Smart said so — or at least he always told my uncle 
he said so, and it’s just the same thing. 

“ ‘ Blow me,’ says Tom Smart ; and the mare neighed as if she were precisely 
of the same opinion. 

“ ‘ Cheer up, old girl,’ said Tom, patting the bay mare on the neck with the 
end of his whip. ‘ It won’t do pushing on, such a night as this ; the first house 
we come to we’ll put up at, so the faster you go the sooner it’s over. Soho, old 
girl — gendy — gently.’ 

“ Whether the vixenish mare was sufficiently well acquainted with the tones of 
Tom’s voice to comprehend his meaning, or whether she found it colder standing 
still than moving on, of course I can’t say. But I can say that Tom had no sooner 
finished speaking, than she pricked up her ears, and started forward at a speed 
which made the clay-coloured gig rattle till you would have supposed every one of 
the red spokes were going to fly out on the turf of Marlborough Downs ; and 
even Tom, whip as he was, couldn’t stop or check her pace, until she drew up, of 
her own accord, before a road-side inn on the right-hand side of the way, about 
half a quarter of a mile from the end of the Downs. 

“Tom cast a hasty glance at the upper part of the house as he threw the reins 
to the hostler, and stuck the whip in the box. It was a strange old place, built of 
a kind of shingle, inlaid, as it were, with cross-beams, with gabled-topped windows 
projecting completely over the pathway, and a low door with a dark porch, and a 
couple of steep steps leading down into the house, instead of the modern fashion 
of half a dozen shallow ones leading up to it. It was a comfortable-looking place 
though, for there was a strong cheerful light in the bar-window, which shed a 
bright ray across the road, and even lighted up the hedge on the other side ; and 
there was a red flickering light in the opposite window, one moment but faintly 
discernible, and the next gleaming strongly through the drawn curtains, which 
intimated that a rousing fire was blazing within. Marking these little evidences 
wdth the eye of an experienced traveller, Tom dismounted with as much agility 
as his half-frozen limbs would permit, and entered the house. 

“ In less than five minutes’ time, Tom was ensconced in the room opposite the 
bar — the very room where he had imagined the fire blazing — before a substantial 
matter-ol'-fact roaring fire, composed of something short of a bushel of coals, and 
wood enough to make half a dozen decent gooseberry bushes, piled half way up 
the chimney, and roaring and crackling with a sound that of itself would have 
warmed the heart of any reasonable man. This was comfortable, but this was 
not all, for a smartly dressed girl, with a bright eye and a neat ancle, was laying a 
very clean white cloth on the table ; and as Tom sat with his slippered feet on the 
fender, and his back to the open door, he saw a chai-ming prospect of the bar 
reflected in the glass over the chimney-piece, with delightful rows of green bottles 
and gold labels, together with jars of pickles and preserves, and cheeses and boiled 
hams, and rounds of beef, arranged on shelves in the most tempting and delicious 
array. Well, this was comfortable too ; but even this was not aU — for in the bar, 


”4 


The Pickwick Club. 


seated at tea at the nicest possible little table, drawn close up before the brightest 
possible little fire, was a buxom widow of somewhere about eight and forty o; 
thereabouts, with a face as comfortable as the. bar, who was evidently the landlady 
of the house, and the supreme ruler over all these agreeable possessions. There 
was only one drawback to the beauty of the whole picture, and that was a 
tall man — a very tall man — in a brown coat and bright basket buttons, and 
black whiskers, and wavy black hair, who was seated at tea with the widow, and 
who it required no great penetration to discover was in a fair way of persuading 
her to be a widow no longer, but to confer upon him the privilege of sitting 
down in that bar, for and during the whole remainder of the term of his natural 
life. 

“ Tom Smart was by no means of an irritable or envious disposition, but some- 
how or other the tall man with the brown coat and the bright basket buttons did 
rouse what little gall he had in his composition, and did make him feel extremely 
indignant ; the more especially as he could now and then observe, from his seat 
before the glass, certain little affectionate familiarities passing between the tall 
man and the widow, which sufficiently denoted that the tall man was as high in 
favour as he was in size. Tom was fond of hot punch — I may venturfe to say he 
was very fond of hot punch — and after he had seen the vixenish mare well fed and 
well littered down, and had eaten every bit of the nice little hot dinner which the 
widow tossed up for him with her own hands, he just ordered a tumbler of it, by 
way of experiment. Now, if there was one thing in the whole range of domestic 
art, which the widow could manufacture better than another, it was this identical 
article ; and the first tumbler was adapted to Tom Smart’s taste with such peculiar 
nicety, that he ordered a second with the least possible delay. Hot punch is a 
pleasant thing, gentlemen — an extremely pleasant thing under any circumstances 
— but in that snug old parlour, before the roaring fire, with the wind blowing out- 
side till every timber in the old house creaked again, Tom Smart found it perfectly 
delightful. He ordered another tumbler, and then another — I am not quite cer- 
tain whether he didn’t order another after that — but the more he dranli of the hot 
punch, the more he thought of the tall man. 

“ ‘ Confound his impudence ! ’ said Tom to himself, ‘what business has he in 
that snug bar } Such an ugly villain too ! ’ said Tom. ‘ If the widow had any 
taste, she might surely pick up some better fellow than that.’ Here Tom’s eye 
wandered from the glass on the chimney-piece, to the glass on the table ; and as 
he felt himself becoming giadually sentimental, he emptied the fourth tumbler of 
punch and ordered a fifth. 

“ Tom Smart, gentlemen, had always been very much attached to the public 
line. It had long been his ambition to stand .m a bar of his own, in a green coat, 
knee-cords, and tops. He had a gi eat notion of taking the chair at convivial dinners, 
and he had often thought how well he could preside in a room of his own in the 
talking way, and M'hat a capital example he could set to his customers in the 
drinking department. All these things passed rapidly through Tom’s mind as he 
sat drinking the hot punch by the roaring fire, and he felt very justly and properly 
indignant that the tall man should be in a fair way of keeping such an excellent 
house, while he, Tom Smart, was as far off from it as ever. So, after deliberating 
over the two last tumblers, whether he hadn’t a perfect right to pick a quairel with 
the tall man for having contrived to get into the good graces of the buxom widow, 
Tom Smart at last amved at the satisfactory conclusion that he was a veiy ill-u >ed 
and persecuted individual, and had better go to bed. 

“ Up a wide and ancient staircase the smart girl preceded Tom, shading Tjo 
chamber candle with her hand, to protect it from the currents of air which in » .ch 
a 'ambling old place might have found plenty of room to disport themselve 


A Rt^marhahle Piece of Furniture, 115 

without blowing the candle out, but which did blow it out nevertheless ; thus 
affording Tom’s enemies an opportunity of asserting that it was be, and not the 
wind, who extinguished the candle, and that while he pretended to be blowing it 
a-light again, he was in fact kissing the girl. Be this as it may, another light was 
obtained, and Tom was conducted through a maze of rooms, and a labyrinth of 
passages, to the apartment which had been prepared for his reception, where th-*. 
girl bade him good night, and left him alone. 

“ It was a good large room with big closets, and a bed which might have served 
for a whole boarding-school, to say nothing of a couple of oaken presses that 
would have held the baggage of a small army ; but what struck Tom’s fancy most 
was a strange, grim-looking high-backed chair, car\'ed in the most fantastic man- 
ner, with a flowered damask cushion, and the round knobs at the bottom of the 
legs carefully tied up in red cloth, as if it had got the gout in its toes. Of any 
other queer chair, Tom would only have thought it was a queer chair, and there 
would have been an end of the matter ; but there was something about this par- 
ticular chair, and yet he couldn’t tell what it was, so odd and so unlike any other 
piece of furniture he had ever seen, that it seemed to fascinate him. He sat down 
before the fire, and stared at the old chair for half an hour ; — Deuce take the chair, 
it was such a strange old thing, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. 

“ ‘ Well,’ said Tom, slowly undressing himself, and staring at the old chair all 
the while, which stood with a mysterious aspect by the bedside, ‘ I never saw such 
a rum concern as that in my days. Very odd,’ said Tom, who had got rather sage 
with the hot punch, ‘ Very odd.’ Tom shook his head with an air of profound 
wisdom, and looked at the chair again. He couldn’t make anything of it though, 
so he got into bed, covered himself up warm, and fell asleep. 

“ In about half an hour, Tom woke up, with a start, from a confused dream of 
tall men and tumblers of punch : and the first object that presented itself to his 
waking imagination was the queer chair. 

“ ‘ I won’t look at it any more,’ said Tom to himself, and he squeezed his eye- 
lids together, and tried to persuade himself he was going to sleep again. No use; 
nothing but queer chairs danced before his eyes, kicking up their legs, jumping 
over each other’s backs, and playing all kinds of antics. 

“ ‘ I may as well see one real chair, as two or three complete sets of false ones,’ 
said Tom, bringing out his head from under the bed-clothes. There it was, plainly 
discernible by the light of the fire, looking as provoking as ever. 

“ Tom gazed at the chair; and, suddenly as he looked at it, a most extraordinary 
change seemed to come over it. The carving of the back gradually assumed the 
lineaments and expression of an old shrivelled human face ; the damask cushion 
became an antique, flapped waistcoat ; the round knobs grew into a couple of 
feet, encased in red cloth slippers ; and the old chair looked like a very ugly old 
man, of the previous century, with his arms a-kimbo. Tom sat up in bed, and 
rubbed his eyes to dispel the illusion. No. The chair was an ugly old gentleman ; 
and what was more, he was winking at Tom Smart. 

“ Tom was naturally a headlong, careless sort of dog, and he had had five 
tumblers of hot punch into the bargain ; so, although he was a little startled at 
first, he began to grow rather indicant when he saw the old gentleman winking 
a ad leering at him with such an impudent air. At length he resolved that he 
wouldn’t stand it ; and as the old face still kept winking away as fast as ever, 
Tom said, in a very angry tone : 

“ ‘ What the devil are you winking at me for } ’ 

“ ‘ Because I like it, Tom Smart,’ said the chair ; or the old gentlemen, wliich- 
ever you like to call him. He stopped winking though, when Torn tpoke, and 
begar* gj inning like a superannuated monkey. 


The Pickwick Club. 


ii6 

** ‘ How do you know my name, old nut-cracker face ! * inquired Tom Sman, 
rather staggered ; — though he pretended to carry it off so w^ell. 

“ ‘Come, come Tom,’ said the old gentleman, ‘that’s not the way to addrese 
solid Spanish Mahogany. Dam’me, you couldn’t treat me with less respect if 
1 was veneered.’ When the old gentleman said this, he looked so fierce that 
Tom began to giow frightened. 

“ ‘ I didn’t mean to treat you with any disrespect, sir,’ said Tom ; in a much 
humbler tone than he had spoken in at first. 

“ ‘ Well, well,’ said the old fellow, ‘ perhaps not — perhaps not. Tom — .* 

“ ‘ Sir — ’ 

“ ‘ I know everything about you, Tom ; everything. You’re very poor, Tom.’ 

“ ‘ I certainly am,’ said Tom Smart. ‘ But how came you to know that ? ’ 

“ ‘ Never mind that,' said the old gentleman ; ‘ you’re much too fond of punch, 
Tom.’ 

“ Tom Smart was just on the point of protesting that he hadn’t tasted a drop 
since his last birth-day, but when his eye encountered that of the old gentleman, 
he looked so knowing that Tom blushed, and was silent. 

“ ‘ Tom,’ said the old gentleman, ‘ the widow’s a fine woman — remarkably fine 
woman — eh, Tom } ’ Here the old fellow screwed up his eyes, cocked up one of 
his wasted little legs, and looked altogether so unpleasantly amorous, that Tom 
was quite disgusted with the levity of his behaviour ; — at his time of life, too ! 

“ ‘ I am her guardian, Tom,’ said the old gentleman. 

“ ‘ Are you ? ’ inquired Tom Smart. 

“ ‘ I knew her mother, Tom,’ said the old fellow ; ‘ and her grandmother. She 
was very fond of me — made me this waistcoat, Tom.* 

“ ‘ Did she ? ’ said Tom Smart. 

“ ‘ And these shoes,’ said the old fellow, lifting up one of the red-cloth 
mufflers ; ‘ but don’t mention it, Tom. I shouldn’t like to have it known that 
she was so much attached to me. It might occasion some unpleasantness in the 
family.’ When the old rascal said this, he looked so extremely impertinent, that, 
as Tom Smart afterwards declared, he could have sat upon him without remorse. 

“ ‘ I have been a gieat favourite among the women in my time, Tom,’ said the 
profligate old debauchee ; ‘ hundreds of fine women have sat in my lap for hours 
together. What do you think of that you dog, eh ! ’ The old gentleman was 
proceeding to recount some other exploits of his youth, when he was seized with 
such a violent fit of creaking that he was unable to proceed. 

“ ‘ Just sei-ves you right, old boy,’ thought Tom Smart ; but he didn’t say 
any tiling. 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ said the old fellow, ‘ I am a good deal troubled with this now. I am 
getting old Tom, and have lost nearly all my rails. I have had an operation 
performed, too — a small piece let into my back — and I found it a severe trial, Tom.’ 

“ ‘ I dare say you did, sir,’ said Tom Smart. 

“ ‘ However,’ said the old gentleman, * that’s not the point. Tom ! I want you 
to many^ the widow.’ 

“ ‘ Me, sir ! ’ said Tom. 

“ ‘ You ; ’ said the old gentleman. 

“ ‘ Bless your reverend locks,’ said Tom— (he had a few scattered horse-hairs 
left)— ‘ bless your reverend locks, she wouldn’t have me.’ And Tom sighed 
involuntarily, as he thought of the bar. 

“ ‘ Wouldn’t she ? ’ said the old gentleman, firmly. 

“ ‘ No, no,’ said Tom ; ‘ there’s somebody else in the wind. A tall man— i 
Confc undedly tall mau — with black whiskers.’ 

••‘Tom,’ said the old gentleman ; ‘ she will never have him.’ 


"Silence for the Chair!*' uy 

*** Won’t she ?’ said Tom. *If you stood in the bar, old gentleman, you’d 
tell another story.’ 

“ ‘ Pooh, pooh,’ said the old gentleman. ‘ I know all about that.* 

“ ‘ About what ? ’ said Tom. 

“ ‘ The kissing behind the door, and all that sort of thing, Tom,* said the old 
gentleman. And here he gave another impudent look, which made Tom very 
wroth, because as you all know, gentlemen, to hear an old fellow, who ought to 
know better, talking about these things, is very unpleasant — nothing more so. 

“ ‘ I know all about that, Tom,’ said the old gentleman. ‘ I have seen it done 
very often in my time, Tom, between more people than I should lilce to mention 
to you ; but it never came to anything after all.’ 

“ ‘ You must have seen some queer things,’ said Tom, with an inquisitive look. 

“ ‘ You may say that, Tom,’ replied the old fellow, with a very complicated 
wink. ‘ I am the last of my family, Tom,’ said the old gentleman, with a melan- 
choly sigh. 

“ ‘ Was it a large one ? ’ inquired Tom Smart. 

“‘There were twelve of us, Tom,’ said the old gentleman; ‘fine straight- 
backed, handsome fellows as you’d wish to see. None of your modern abortions 
— all with arms, and with a degi-ee of polish, though I say it that should not, 
which would have done your heart good to behold.’ 

“ ‘ And what’s become of the others, sir ? ’ asked Tom Smart. 

“ ‘ The old gentleman applied his elbow to his eye as he replied, ‘ Gone, Tom, 
gone. We had hard seiwice, Tom, and they hadn’t all my constitution. They 
got rheumatic about the legs and arms, and went into kitchens and other hospitals; 
and one of ’em, with long ser%dce and hard usage, positively lost his senses ; — he 
got so crazy that he was obliged to be burnt. Shocking thing that, Tom.’ 

“ ‘ Dreadful ! ’ said Tom Smart. 

“ The old fellow paused for a few minutes, apparently struggling with his feel- 
11. gs of emotion, and then said : 

“ ‘ However, Tom, I am wandering from the point. This tall man, Tom, is a 
rascally adventurer. The moment he married the widow, he would sell off all the 
furniture, and run away. What would be the consequence ? She would be 
deserted and reduced to ruin, and I should catch my death of cold in some 
broker’s shop.’ 

“ ‘Yes, but — ’ 

“ ‘ Don’t interrupt me,’ said the old gentleman. ‘ Of you, Tom, I entertain a 
very dififerent opinion ; for I well know that if you once settled yourself in a public 
house, you w'ould never leave it, as long as there was anything to drink within 
its walls.’ 

“ ‘ I am very much obliged to you for your good opinion, sir,’ said Tom Smart. 

“ ‘ Therefore,’ resumed the old gentleman, in a dictatorial tone ; ‘you shall have 
her, and he shall not.’ 

“ ‘ What is to prevent it ? ’ said Tom Smart, eagerly. 

“ ‘ This disclosure,’ replied the old gentleman ; ‘ he is already married.’ 

“ ‘ How’ can I prove it ? ’ said Tom, starting half out of bed. 

“The old gentleman untucked his arm from his side, and having pointed to 
one of the oaken presses, immediately replaced it in its old position. 

“ ‘ He little thinks,’ said the old gentleman, ‘ that in the right hand pocket of 
a pair of trousers in that press, he has left a letter, entreating him to return to his 
disconsolate wife, with six — mark me, Tom — six babes, and all of them small ones.’ 

“ As the old gentleman solemnly uttered these words, his features grew less 
wd less distinct, and his figure more shadowy. A film came over Tom Smart’s 
eyes. The old man seemed gradually blending into the chair, the dimask waist 


Ii8 


The Pickwick Club. 


coat to resolve into a cushion, the red slippers to shrink into little red cloth bags- 
The light faded gently away, and Tom Smart fell back on his pillow, and dropped 
asleep. 

“ Morning a’oused Tom from the lethargic slumber, into which he had fallen 
on the disajjpearance of the old man. He sat up in bed, and for some minutes 
vainly endeavoured to recall the events of the preceding night. Suddenly they 
rushed upon him. He looked at the chair ; it was a fantastic and gi'im- looking 
piece of furniture, certainly, but it must have been a remarkably ingenious and 
lively imagination, that could have discovered any resemblance between it and an 
old man. 

“ ‘ How are you, old boy 1 ’ said Tom. He was bolder in the daylight — most 
men are. 

“ The chair remained motionless, and spoke not a word. 

“ ‘ Miserable morning,’ said Tom. No. The chair would not be draAvn into 
conversation. 

‘ ‘ Which press did you point to 1 — you can tell me that,’ said Tom. Devil a 
word, gentlemen, the chair would say. 

“ ‘ It’s not much trouble to open it, any how,’ said Tom, getting out of bed 
very deliberately. He walked up to one of the presses. The key was in the lock ; 
he turned it, and opened the door. There was a pair of trousers there. He put 
his hand into the pocket, and drew forth the identical letter the old gentleman 
had described ! 

“ ‘ Queer sort of thing, this,’ said Tom Smart ; looking first at the chair and 
then at the press, and then at the letter, and then at the chair again. ‘ Very queer,’ 
said Tom. But, as there was nothing in either, to lessen the queerness, he thought 
lie might as well dress himself, and settle the tall man’s business at once — just to 
put !iim out of his misery. 

“ Tom surveyed the rooms he passed through, on his way down stairs, with the 
scrutinising eye of a landlord ; thinking it not impossible, that before long, they 
and their contents would be his property. The tall man was standing in the snug 
little bar, with his hands behind him, quite at home. He giinned vacantly at 
Tom. A casual ob'^erver might have supposed he did it, only to show his white 
teeth ; but Tom ijinart thought that a consciousness of triumph was passing 
through the place where the tali man’s mind would have been, if he had had any. 
lorn laughed in his face ; and summoned the landlady. 

“ ‘ Good morning, ma’am,’ said Tom Smart, closing the door of the little 
jiarlour as the widow entered. 

“ ‘ Good morning, sir,’ said the widow. ‘ Wliat will you take for breakfast, sii ? ’ 

“Tom was thinking how he should open the case, so he made no answer. 

“ ‘ There’s a very nice ham,’ said the widow, ‘ and a beautiful cold larded fowl. 
Shall I send ’em in, sir } ’ 

“ These words roused Tom from his reflections. His admiration of the widow 
increased as she spoke. Thoughtful creature ! Comfortable provider ! 

“ ‘ Who is that gentleman in the bar, ma’am ? ’ inquired Tom. 

“ ‘ His name is Jinkins, sir,’ said the widow, slightly blushing. 

“ ‘ He’s a tall man,’ said Tom. 

“ ‘ He is a very fine man, sir,’ replied the widow, * and a very nice gentleman.* 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ said Tom. 

“ ‘ Is there anything more you want, sir ? ’ inquired the widow, rather puzzled 
by Tom’s manner. 

“ ‘ Why, yes,’ said Tom. ‘ My dear ma’am, will you have the kindness to sit 
down for one moment } ’ 

“ The widow looked much amazed, but she sat down, and Tom sat down too, 


Tom Smart and the Widow. 


119 


close beside her. 1 don’t know now it happened, gentlemen — indeed my uncle 
used to tell me that Tom Smart said he didn’t know how it happened either — but 
somehow or other the palm of Tom’s hand fell upon the back of the widow’s 
hand, and remained there while he spoke. 

“ ‘ ISIy dear ma’am,’ said Tom Smart — ^he had always a great notion of com- 
mitting the amiable — ‘ My dear ma’am, you deserve a very excellent husband; — ■ 
you do indeed.’ 

“ ‘ Lor, sir ! * said the widow — as well she might : Tom’s mode of commencing 
the conversation being rather unusual, not to say startling : the fact of his never 
having set eyes upon her before the previous night, being taken into consideration. 
* Lor, sir ! ’ 

“ ‘ I scorn to flatter, my dear ma’am,’ said Tom Smart. ‘You deserve a very 
admirable husband, and whoever he is, he’ll be a very lucky man.’ As Tom said this 
his eye involuntarily wandered from the widow’s face, to the comforts around him. 

“ The widow looked more puzzled than ever, and made an effort to rise. Tom 
gently pressed her hand, as if to detain her, and she kept her seat. Widows, 
genUemen, are not usually timorous, as my uncle used to say. 

“ ‘ I am sure I am very much obliged to you, sir, for your good opinion,’ said 
the buxom landlady, half laughing ; ‘ and if ever I marry again ’ — 

“ ‘7/*,’ said Tom Smart, looldng very shrewdly out of the right-hand comer of 
his left eye. ‘ If' — 

“ ‘ Well,’ said the widow, laughing outright this time. ‘ When I do, I hope I 
shall have as good a husband as you describe.’ 

“ ‘ Jinkins to wit,’ said Tom. 

“ ‘ Lor, sir ! ’ exclaimed the widow. 

“ ‘ Oh, don’t tell me,’ said Tom, ‘ I know him.* 

“ ‘I am sure nobody who knows him, knows anything bad of him,’ said the 
widow, bridling up at the mysterious air with which Tom had spoken. 

“ ‘ Hem ! ’ said Tom Smart. 

“ The widow began to think it was high time to cry, so she took out her hand- 
kerchief, and inquired whether Tom wished to insult her : whether he thought it 
like a gentleman to take away the character of another gentleman behind his 
back : why, if he had got anything to say, he didn’t say it to the man, like a man, 
instead of terrifying a poor weak woman in that way ; and so forth. 

“ ‘ I’ll say it to him fast enough,’ said Tom, ‘ only I want you to hear it first.’ 

“ ‘ Wliat is it ? ’ inquired the widow, looking intently in Tom’s countenance. 

“ ‘ I’ll astonish you,’ said Tom, putting his hand in his pocket. 

“ ‘ If it is, that he wants money,’ said the widow, ‘ I know that already, anJ 
you needn’t trouble yourself.’ 

“ ‘ Pooh, nonsense, that’s nothing,’ said Tom Smart; ‘/want money. ’Tan’t 
that.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, dear, what can it be } ’ exclaimed the poor widow. 

‘■‘Don’t be frightened,’ said Tom Smart. He slowly drew forth the letter, 
and unfolded it. ‘ You won’t scream } ’ said Tom, doubtfully. 

“ ‘ No, no,’ replied the widow ; ‘ let me see it.’ 

“ ‘ You won’t go fainting away, or any of that nonsense ? ’ said Tom. 

“ ‘ No, no,’ returned the widow, hastily. 

“ ‘ And don’t run out, and blow him up,’ said Tom, ‘ because I’ll do all that 
for you ; you had better not exert yourself.’ 

“ ‘ Well, well,’ said the widow, ‘ let me see it.’ 

“ ‘I will,’ replied Tom Smart ; and, with these words, he placed the letter in 
the widow’s hand. 

“ Gentlemen, I have heard my uncle say, that Tom Smart said, the widow s 


120 


The Pickwick Club. 


lamentations when she heard the disclosure would have pierced a heart of stone. 
Tom was certainly veiy tender-hearted, but they pierced his, to the very core. The 
widow rocked herself to and fro, and wrung her hands. 

“ ‘ Oh, the deception and villainy of man ! ’ said the widow. 

“ ‘ Frightful, my dear ma’am ; but compose yourself,’ said Tom Smart. 

“ ‘ Oh, I can’t compose myself,’ shrieked the widow. ‘ I shall never find any 
one else I can love so much ! ’ 

“ ‘ Oh yes you will, my dear soul,’ said Tom Smart, letting fall a shower of the 
largest sized tears, in pity for the widow’s misfortunes. Tom Smart, in the energy 
of his compassion, had put his arm round the widow’s waist ; and the widow, in a 
passion of grief, had clasped Tom’s hand. She looked up in Tom’s face, and 
smiled through her tears. Tom looked down in her’s, and smiled through his. 

“ I never could find out, gentlemen, whether Tom did or did not kiss the widow 
at that particular moment. He used to tell my uncle he didn’t, but I have my 
doubts about it. Between ourselves, gentlemti., I rather think he did. 

“ At all events, Tom kicked the very tall man out at the front door half an hour 
after, and married the widow a month after. And he used to drive about the 
country, with the clay-coloured gig with red wheels, and the vixenish mare with 
the fast pace, till he g^ve up business many years afterwards, and went to France 
with his wife ; and then the old house was pulled down.” 


“ Will you allow me to ask you,” said the inquisitive old gentleman, “ what 
became of the chair?” 

“ Why,” replied the one-eyed bagman, “it was observed to creak very much on 
the day of the wedding ; but Tom Smart couldn’t say for certain whether it was 
with pleasure or bodily infirmity. He rather thought it was the latter, though, for 
it never spoke afteiwards.” 

“Everybody believed the story, didn’t they ?” said the dirty-faced man, re-fill- 
ing his pipe. 

“Except Tom’s enemies,” replied the bagman. “Some of ’em said Tom 
invented it altogether ; and others said he was drunk, and fancied it, and got hold 
of the wiong trousers by mistake before he went to bed. But nobody ever minded 
what they said.” 

“ Tom said it was all true ?” 

“ Every word.” 

“And your uncle ?” 

“ Every letter.” 

“ They must have been very nice men, both of ’em said the dirty-faced man 

“Yes, they were,” replied the bagman ; “ very nice men indeed !” 


CHAPTER XV. 

IN WHICH IS GIVEN A FAITHFUL PORTRAITURE OF TWO DISTINGUISHED 
PERSONS; AND AN ACCURATE DESCRIPTION OF A PUBLIC BREAKF\ST IN 
THEIR HOUSE AND GROUNDS; WHICH PUBLIC BREAKFAST LEADS TO 
THE RECOGNITION OF AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE, AND THE COMMENCEMENT 
OF ANOTHER CHAPTER. 

Mr. Pickwick’s coiiscience had been somewhat reproaching him for his recent 
neglect of his friends at the Peacock ; and he was just on the point of walking 
lorth in quest of them, on the third morning after the election had terminated. 


Mr. Leo Hunter calls. 


121 


when his faithful valet put into his hand a card, on which was engraved the 
following inscription ; — 

Prs. ^£0 Jttixttr. 

The Den. Eatanswill. 

“ Person’s a waitin’,” said Sam, epigrammatically. 

“ Does the person want me, Sam ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ He wants you parti cklar ; and no one else ’ll do, as the Devil’s private seare- 
tary said ven he fetched avay Doctor Faustus,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ He. Is it a gentleman said Mr. Pickwick. 

“A wery good imitation o’ one, if it an’t,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ But this is a lady’s card,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Given me by a gen’lm’n, hows’ever,” replied Sam, “ and he’s a waitin’ in the 
drawing-room — said he’d rather wait all day, than not see you.” 

Mr. Pickwick, on hearing this determination, descended to the drawing-room, 
where sat a grave man, who started up on his entrance, and said, with an air oil 
profound respect : 

“ Mr. Pickwick, I presume ?” 

“ The same.’* 

“ Allow me, sir, the honour of grasping your hand. Permit me, sir, to shake 
it/’ said the grave man. 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

The stranger shook the extended hand, and then continued. 

“We have heard of your fame, sir. The noise of your antiquarian discussion 
has reached the ears of Mrs. Leo Hunter — my wife, sir ; / am Mr. Leo Hunter ” — 
the stranger paused, as if he expected that Mr. Pickwick would be overcome by 
the disclosure ; but seeing that he remained perfectly calm, proceeded. 

“ My wife, sir — Mrs. Leo Hunter — is proud to number among her acquaintance 
all those who have rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. 
Permit me, sir, to place in a conspicuous part of the list the name of Mr. Pick- 
wick, and his brother members of the club that derives its name from him.” 

“I shall be extremely happy to make the acquaintance of such a lady, sir,” 
replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ You shall make it, sir,” said the grave man. “ To-monw morning, sir, we 
give a public breakfast — a fHe chavipetre — to a great number of those who have 
rendered themselves celebrated by their works and talents. Permit Mrs. Leo 
Hunter, sir, to have the gratification of seeing you at the Den.” 

“ With great pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Mrs. Leo Hunter has many of these breakfasts, sir,” resumed the new 
acquaintance — “ ‘ feasts of reason, sir, and flows of soul,’ as somebody who wiote 
a sonnet to Mrs. Leo Hunter on her breakfasts, feelingly and originally observed.” 

“ Was he celebrated for his works and talents ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“He was, sir,” replied the grave man, “all Mrs. Leo Hunter’s acquaintance 
are ; it is her ambition, sir, to have no other acquaintance.” 

“ It is a very noble ambition,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Wlien I inform Mrs. Leo Hunter, that that remark fell from vozir lips, sir, she 
wiU indeed be proud,” said the grave man. “You have a gentleman in your 
train, who has produced some beautiful little poems, I think, sir.” 

“ My friend Mr. Snodgrass has a great taste for poetry,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“So has Mrs. Leo Hunter, sir. She doats on poetry, sir. She adores it; I 
may say that her whole soul and mind are wound up, and entwined with it. She 
has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. You may ha^e met with her 
* Ode to an Expiring Frog,’ sir.” 


12 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ I don’t think I have,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ You astonish me, sir,” said Mr. Leo Hunter. “ It created aa immense sr®. 
s^tion. It was signed with an ‘ L’ and eight stars, and appeared originally in a 
1. idy’s Magazine. It commenced 

‘ Can I view tliee panting, lying 
On thy stomach, without sighing; 

Can 1 unmoved see thee dying 

On a log, 

Expiring frog ! ”* 

“ Beautiful ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Fine,” said Mr. Leo Hunter, “ so simple.” 

“ Very,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ The next verse is still more touching. Shall I repeat it ?*’ 

“If you please,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ It runs thus,” said the grave man, still more gravely. 

‘ Say, have fiends in shape of boys, 

With wild halloo, and brutal noise, 

Hunted lliee from marshy joys. 

With a dog, 

Expii-ingfrog!’” 

“Finely expressed,” said Mr. Pickwuck. 

“ All point, sir,” said Mr. Leo Hunter, “ but you shall hear Mrs. Leo Huntei 
repeat it. Ske can do justice to it, sir. She will repeat it, in character, sir, to 
morrow' morning.” 

“ In character !” 

“ As Minerva. But I forgot — it’s a fancy-dress breakfast.” 

“ Dear me,” said Mr. Pickwick, glancing at his owm figure — “ I can’t possibly — ” 

“Can’t, sir; can’t!” exclaimed Mr. Leo Hunter. “Solomon Lucas, the Jew 
in the High Street, has thousands of fancy dresses. Consider, sir, how many 
appropriate characters are open for your selection. Plato, Zeno, Epicurus, Pytha- 
goras — all founders of clubs.” 

“ I know that,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ but as I cannot put myself in competition 
with those great men, I cannot presume to wear their dresses.” 

The grave man considered deeply, for a few seconds, and then said, 

“ On reflection, sir, I don’t know whether it would not afford Mrs. Leo Hunter 
greater pleasure, if her guests saw a gentleman of your celebrity in his own cos- 
tume, rather than in an assumed one. I may venture to promise an exception in 
cour case, sir — yes, I am quite certain that on behalf of Mrs. Leo Hunter, I may 
venture to do so.” 

“ In that case,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ I shall have great pleasure in coming.” 

“ But I waste your time, sir,” said the grave man, as if suddenly recollecting 
himself. “ I know its value, sir. I will not detain you. I may tell Mrs. Leo * 
Hunter, then, that she may confidently expect you and your distinguished friends ? 
Good morning, sir, I am proud to have beheld so eminent a personage — not a step, 
sir ; not a word.” And without giving Mr. Pickwick time to offer remonstrance 
or denial, Mr. Leo Hunter stalked gravely away. 

Mr. Pickwick took up his hat, and repaired to the Peacock, but ^Ir. Winkle 
had conveyed the intelligence of the fancy ball there, before him. 

“ Mrs. Pott’s going,” were the first words with which he saluted his leader. 

“Is she ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ As Apollo,” replied Mr, Winkle. “ Only Pott objects to the tunic.” 

“ He is right. He is quite right,” said Mr. Pickwick emphatically. 

•* Ye*; — so she ’s going to wear a white satin gown with gold spangles.” 


Pickwickian Tkarvitn. 


123 


“They’ll hardly know what she ’s' meant for ; will they ?” inquired Mr. Snod* 
grass. 

“Of course they will,” replied Mr. Winkle indignantly. “ They ’ll see her lyre, 
won’t they ?” 

“ Ti-ue ; I forgot that,” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ I shall go as a Bandit,” interposed Mr. Tupman. 

“ Wliat ! ” said Mr. Pickwick, with a sudden start. 

“As a bandit,” repeated Mr. Tupman, mildly. 

“ You don’t mean to say,” said Mr. Pickwick, gazing with solemn sternness at 
his friend, “ You don’t mean to say, Mr. Tupman, that it is yom intention to put 
yourself into a gi-een velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail ?” 

“ Such is my intention, sir,” replied Mr. Tupman warmly. “ And why not, sir 

“ Because, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, considerably excited. “ Because you are 
too old, sir.” 

“ Too old ! ” exclaimed Mr. Tupman. 

“ And if any further ground of objection be wanting,” continued Mr. Pickwick, 
“you are too fat, sir.” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Tupman, his face suffused with a crimson glow. “This is an 
insult.” 

“ Sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick in the same tone, “ It is not half the insult to you, 
that your appearance in my presence in a green velvet jacket, with a two-inch tail, 
would be to me.’ 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Tupman, “you’re a fellow.” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ you’re another !” 

Mr. Tupman advanced a step or two, and glared at Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pick- 
(vick returned the glare, concentrated into a focus by means of his spectacles, and 
breathed a bold defiance. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. "Winkle looked on, petrified at 
beholding such a scene between two such men. 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Tupman, after a short pause, speaking in a low, deep voice, 
“you have called me old.” 

“ I have,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ And fat.” 

“ I reiterate the charge.” 

“ And a fellow.” 

“ So you are !” 

There was a fearful pause. 

“ My attachment to your person, sir,” said Mr. Tupman, speaking is a voice 
tremulous with emotion, and tucking up his wristbands meanwhile, “ is great — 
very great — but upon that person, I must take summary vengeance.” 

“ Come on, sir !” replied Mr. Pickwick. Stimulated by the exciting nature of 
tt-j dialogue, the heroic man actually threw himself into a paralytic attitude, con- 
fidently supposed by the two by-standers to have been intended as a posture of 
defence. 

“ "What ! ” exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, suddenly recovering the power of speech, 
of which intense astonishment had previously bereft him, and rushing between 
the two, at the imminent hazard of receiving an application on the temple from 
each, “ What ' Mr. Pickwick, with the eyes of the world upon you ! Mr. Tup- 
man ! Who, in common with us all, derives a lustre from his undying name ! For 
shame, gentlemen ; for shame.” 

The unwonted lines which momentary passion had ruled in Mr. Pickwick’s 
clear and open brow, gradually melted away, as his young friend spoke, like the 
marks of a black-lead pencil beneath the softening influence of India rubber. Ilij 
countenance had resumed its usual benign expression, ere he concluded. 


124 


The Pickwick Cluh. 


“ I have been hasty,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ very hasty. Tupman ; ycur h?rd.’* 

The dark shadow passed from Mr. Tupman’s face, as he warmly grasped the 
hand of his friend. 

“ I have been hasty, too,” said he. 

“No, no,” interrupted Mr. Pickwick, “ the fault was mine. You will wear the 
green velvet jacket 

“No, no,” replied Mr. Tupman. 

“To oblige me, you will,” resumed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Well, well, I will,” said Mr. Tupman. 

It was accordingly settled that Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, 
should all wear fancy dresses. Thus Mr. Pickwick was led by the veiy warmtt 
of his own good feelings to give his consent to a proceeding from which his bettei 
judgment would have recoiled — a more striking illustration of his amiable charactei 
could hardly have been conceived, even if the events recorded in these pages had 
been wholly imaginary. jju 

Mr. Leo Hunter had not exaggerated the resources of Mr. Solomon Lucas. Hi' 
wardrobe was extensive — very extensive — not strictly classical perhaps, nor quitf 
new, nor did it contain any one garment made precisely after the fashion of anj 
age or time, but eveiything was more or less spangled ; and what can be prettiei 
than spangles ! It may be objected that they are not adapted to the daylight, bul 
eveiy'body knows that they would glitter if there w^ere lamps ; and nothing can be 
clearer thar. that if people give fancy balls in the day-time, and the dresses do not 
show quite as well as they would by night, the fault lies solely with the people who 
give the fancy balls, and is in no wise chargeable on the spangles. Such was the 
convincing reasoning of Mr. Solomon Lucas ; and influenced by such arguments 
did Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, engage to array themselves in 
costumes which his taste and experience induced him to recommend as admirably 
suited to the occasion. 

A carriage was hired from the Town Arms, for the accommodation of the Pick- 
wickians, and a chariot was ordered from the same repositorj’^, for the purpose of 
conveying Mr. and Mrs. Pott to Mrs. Leo Hunter’s grounds, which Mr. Pott, as 
a delicate acknowledgment of having received an invitation, had already con- 
fidently predicted in the Eatanswill Gazette “would present a scene of varied and 
delicious enchantment — a bewildering coruscation of beauty and talent — a la\hsh 
and prodigal display of hospitality — above all, a degree of splendour softened by 
the most exquisite taste ; and adornment refined with perfect harmony and the 
chastest good keeping — compared with which, the fabled gorgeousness of Eastern 
Fairy-land itself, would appear to be clothed in as many dark and murky colours, 
as must be the mind of the splenetic and unmanly being who could presume to 
taint with the venom of his envy, the preparations making by the virtuous and 
highly distinguished lady, at whose shrine this humble tribute of admiration was 
offered.” This last was a piece of biting sarcasm against the Independent, who 
in consequence of not having been invited at all, had been through four number's 
affecting to sneer at the whole affair, in his very largest type, with aU the adjec- 
tives in capital letters. 

The morning came ; it was a pleasant sight to behold Mr. Tupman in full 
Brigand’s costume, with a very tight jacket, sitting like a pincushion over his 
back and shoulders : the upper portion of his legs encased in the velvet shcrts, 
and the lower part thereof swathed in the complicated bandages to which all 
Brigands are peculiarly attached. It was pleasing to see his open and ingenuous 
countenance, well mustachioed and corked, looking out from an open shirt collar ; 
and to contemplate the sugar-loaf hat, decorated with ribbons of all colours, which 
he was compelled to carry on his knee, inasmuch as no known c'mveyance with a 


Fancy Costumes. 


113 

iop to it, would admit of any man’s carrying it between his head and the roof. 
Equally humourous and agi'eeable was the appearance of Mr. Snodgrass in blue 
satin trunks and cloak, white silk tights and shoes, and Grecian helmet : which 
everybody knows (and if they do not, Mr. Solomon Lucas did) to have been the 
regular, authentic, every-day costume of a Troubadour, from the earliest ages 
down to the time of their final disappearance from the face of the earth. All this 
was pleasant, but this was as nothing compared with the shouting of the populace 
when the carriage drew up, behind Mr. Pott’s chariot, which chariot itself drew 
up at Mr. Pott’s door, which door itself opened, and displayed the great Pott 
accoutred as a Russian officer of justice, with a tremendous knout in his hand — 
tastefully t5'pical of the stem and mighty power of the Eatanswill Gazette, and the 
fearful lashings it bestowed on public offenders. 

“ Bravo !” shouted Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass from the passage, when 
they beheld the walking allegory. 

“ Bravo !” Mr. Pickwick was heard to exclaim, from the passage. 

“ Hoo — roar Pott !” shouted the populace. Amid these salutations, Mr. Pott, 
smiling with that kind of bland dignity which sufficiently testified that he felt his 
power, and knew how to exert" it, got into the chariot. 

Then there emerged from the house, Mrs. Pott, who would have looked very 
like Apollo if she hadn’t had a gown on : conducted by Mr. Winkle, who in his 
light-red coat, could not possibly have been mistaken for anything but a sports- 
man, if he had not borne an equal resemblance to a general postman. Last of all 
came Mr. Pickwick, whom the boys applauded as loud as anybody, probably 
under the impression that his tights and gaiters were some remnants of the dark 
ages ; and then the two vehicles proceeded towards Mrs. Leo Hunter’s ; Mr. 
Weller (who was to assist in waiting) being stationed on the box of that in which 
his master was seated. 

Every one of the men, women, boys, girls, and babies, who were assembled to 
see the visitors in their fancy dresses, screamed with delight and ecstasy, when 
Mr. Pickwick, with the Brigand on one arm, and the Troubadour on the other, 
walked solemnly up the entrance. Never were such shouts heard, as those which 
gi'eeted Mr. Tupman’s efforts to fix the sugar-loaf hat on his head, by way of 
entering the garden in style. 

The preparations were on the most delightful scale ; fully realising the prophetic 
Pott’s anticipations about the gorgeousness of Eastern Faiiy-land, and at once 
affording a sufficient contradiction to the malignant statements of the reptile Inde- 
pendent. The grounds were more than an acre and a quarter in extent, and they 
were filled with people ! Never was such a blaze of beauty, and fashion, and 
literature. There was the young lady who “did” the poetry in the Eatanswill 
Gazette, in the garb of a sultana, leaning upon the arm of the young gentleman 
who “did” the review department, and who was appropriately habited in a field 
marshal’s uniform — the boots excepted. There were hosts of these geniuses, and 
any reasonable person would have thought it honour enough to meet them. But 
moie than these, there were half a dozen lions from London — authors, real authors, 
who had written whole books, and printed them afteiwards — and here you might 
see ’em, walking about, like ordinary men, smiling, and talking — aye, and talking 
pretty considerable nonsense too, no doubt with the benign intention of rendering 
themselves intelligible to the common people about them. Moreover, there was a 
band ‘>f music in pasteboard caps ; four something-ean singers in the costume of 
their countr}q and a dozen hired waiters in the costume of their countiy — and very 
dirty costume too. And above all, there was Mrs. Leo Hunter in the character of 
Minerva, receiving the company, and overflowing with pride and gxatification at 
the notion of having called such distinguished individuals together. 


126 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Mr. Pick\tick, ma’am,” said a servant, as that gentleman approached the pre- 
siding goddess, with his hat in his hand, and the Brigand and Troubadour on 
either arm. 

“What! Where!” exclaimed Mrs. Leo Hunter, starting up, in an affected 
rapture of surprise. 

“ Here,” said Mr. Pickmck. 

“Is it possible that I have really the gratification of leholding Mr. Pickwick 
himself ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Leo Hunter. 

“ No other, ma’am,” replied Mr. Pickwick, bowing verj’ low. “ Permit me to 
introduce my friends — Mr. Tupman — Mr. Winlde — Mr. Snodgrass — to the autho- 
ress of ‘ The Expiring Frog.’ ” 

Very few people but those who have tried it, know what a difficult process it is, 
to bow in green velvet smalls, and a tight jacket, and high-crowned hat : or in 
blue satin trunks and white silks : or knee-cords and top-boots that were never 
made for the wearer, and have been fixed upon him without the remotest reference 
to the comparative dimensions of himself and the suit. Never were such distor- 
tions as Air. Tupman’s frame underwent in his efforts to appear easy and graceful 
—never was such ingenious posturing, as his fancy-dressed friends exhibited. 

“ Air. Pickwick,” said Airs. Leo Hunter, “ I must make you promise not to stir 
from my side the whole day. There are hundreds of people here, that I must 
positively introduce you to.” 

“ You are very kind, ma’am,” said Air. Pickwick. 

“ In the first place, here are my little girls ; I had almost forgotten them,” said 
Alinerva, carelessly pointing towards a couple of full-grown young ladies, of whom 
one might be about twenty, and the other a year or two older, and who were 
dressed in very juvenile costumes — whether to make them look young, or their 
mamma younger, Air. Pickwick does not distinctly inform us. 

“They are very beautiful,” said Air. Pickwick, as the juveniles turned away, 
after being presented. 

“ They are very like their mamma, sir,” said Mr. Pott, majestically. 

“ Oh you naughty man,” exclaimed Airs. Leo Hunter, playfully tapping the 
Editor’s arm with her fan (Alinerva with a fan !) 

“ Why now, my dear Airs. Hunter,” said Air. Pott, who was trumpeter in ordi- 
nary at the Den, “you know that when your picture was in the Exhibition of the 
Royal Academy, last year, everybody inquired whether it was intended for you, 
or your youngest daughter ; for you were so much alike that there was no telling 
the difference between you.” 

“ Well, and if they did, why need you repeat it, before strangers ? ” said Airs. 
Leo Hunter, bestowing another tap on the slumbering lion of the Eatanswill 
Gazette. 

“ Count, Count,” screamed Mrs. Leo Hunter to a well-whiskered individual in 
a foreign uniform, who was passing by. 

“ Ah ! you want me ? ” said the Count, turning back. 

“ I want to introduce two veiy clever people to each other,” said Mrs. Leo 
Hunter. “Air. Pickwick, I have great pleasure in introducing you to Count 
Smorltolk.” She added in a hurried whisper to Air. Pickwick— “ the famous 
foreigner— gathering materials for his great work on England— hem !— Count 
Smorltork, Air. Pickwick.” 

Air. Pickwick saluted the Count with all the reverence due to so great a man, 
and the Count drew forth a set of tablets. 

“ Wh.it you say. Airs. Hunt } ” inquired the Count, smiling graciously on the 
gratified Airs. Leo Hunter, “ Pig Vig or Big Vig— what you call— LawAer— eh } I 
— that is it Big Vig ” — and the Count was proceeding to enter Air. Pickwick 


A Distinguished Foreigner. 

in his tablets, as a gentleman of the long robe, who derived his name from the 
profession to which he belonged, when Mrs. Leo Hunter interposed. 

“ No, no, Count,” said the lady, “ Pick-w’ick.” 

“Ah, ah, I see,” replied the Count. “Peek — Christian name; Weeks — sur- 

name ; good, ver good. Peek Weeks. How you do Weeks } ” 

“ Quite well, I thank you,” replied Mr. Pickwick, with all his usual affability. 
“ Have you been long in- England ” 

“ Long — ver long time — fortnight — more.” 

“ Do you stay here long ? ” 

“ One week.” 

“You will have enough to do,” said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, “to gather all the 
materials you w'ant, in that time.” 

“ Eh, they are gathered,” said the Count. 

“ Indeed ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ They are here,” added the Count, tapping his forehead significantly. “ Large 
book at home — full of notes — music, picture, science, poetiy, poltic ; all tings.” 

“The word politics, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ comprises, in itself, a difficult 
study of no inconsiderable magnitude.” 

“Ah ! ” said the Count, drawing out the tablets again, “ver good — fine words 
to begin a chapter. Chapter forty-seven. Poltics. The word poltic surprises by 
himself — ” And down went Mr. Pickwack’s remark, in Count Smorltork’s tablets, 
with such variations and additions as the Count’s exuberant fancy suggested, or 
his imperfect knowledge of the language, occasioned. 

•‘Count,” said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 

“Mrs. Hunt,” replied the Count. 

“This is Mr. Snodgrass, a friend of Mr. Pickwick’s, and a poet.” 

“ Stop,” exclaimed the Count, bringing out the tablets once more. “ Head, 
potry — chapter, literary friends — name, Snowgrass ; ver good. Introduced tc 
Snowgrass — great poet, friend of Peek Weeks — by Mrs. Hunt, which wrote othei 
sweet poem — what is that name.? — Fog — Perspiring Fog — ver good — ^ver good 
indeed. And the Count put up his tablets, and with sundry bows and acknow- 
ledgments walked away, thoroughly satisfied that he had made the most import- 
ant and valuable additions to his stock of information. 

“Wonderful man. Count Smorltork,” said Mrs. Leo Hunter. 

“ Sound philosopher,” said Mr. Pott. 

“ Clear-headed, strong-minded person,” added Mr. Snodgrass. 

A chorus of by-standers took up the shout of Count Smorltork’s praise, shook 
their heads sagely, and unanimously cried “ Very ! ” 

As the enthusiasm in Count Smorltork’s favour ran very high, his praises might 
have been sung until the end of the festivities, if the four something-ean singers 
had not ranged themselves in front of a small apple-tree, to look picturesque, and 
commenced singing their national songs, which appeared by no means difficult of 
execution, inasmuch as the grand secret seemed to be, that three of the something- 
ean singers should gunt, while the fourth howled. This interesting performance 
having concluded amidst the loud plaudits of the whole company, a boy forthwith 
proceeded to entangle himself with the rails of a chair, and to jump over it, and 
crawl under it, and fall down with it, and do everything but sit upon it, and then 
to make a ci avat of his legs, and tie them round his neck, and then to illustrate 
the ease with which a human being can be made to look like a magnified toad — 
all which feats yielded high delight and satisfaction to the assembled spectators. 
After which, the voice of Mrs. Pott was heard to chirp faintly forth, something 
which courtesy interpreted into a song, which was all veiy classical, and strictly in 
character, because Apollo was himself a composer, and composers can very seldom 


128 


The Pickwick Club. 


sing their own music or anybody else’s, either. This was succeeded by Mrs. Leo 
Hunter’s recitation of her far-famed Ode to an Expiring Frog, which was encored 
once, and would have been encored twice, if the major part of the guests, who 
thought it was high time to get something to eat, had not said that it was perfectly 
shameful to take advantage of Mrs. Hunter’s good nature. So although Mrs. 
Leo Hunter professed her perfect willingness to recite the ode again, her kind and 
considerate friends wouldn’t hear of it on any account ; and the refreshment room 
being thrown open, all the people who had ever been there before, scrambled 
in with all possible despatch : Mrs. Leo Hunter’s usual course of proceeding, 
being, to issue cards for a hundred, and breakfast for fifty, or in other words to 
feed only the very particular lions, and let the smaller animals take care of them- 
selves. 

“ Where is Mr. Pott ? ” said Mrs. Leo Hunter, as she placed the aforesaid lions 
around her. 

“ Here I am,” said the editor, from the remotest end of the room ; far beyoi>d 
ill hope of food, unless something was done for him by the hostess. 

“ Won’t you come up here } ” 

“ Oh pray don’t mind him,” said Mrs. Pott, in the most obliging voice — “you 
give yourself a great deal of unnecessary trouble, Mrs. Hunter. You’ll do very 
well there, won’t you — dear.” 

“ Certainly — love,” replied the unhappy Pott, with a grim smile. Alas for the 
knout ! The nervous arm that wielded it, with such gigantic force, on public cha- 
racters, was paralysed beneath the glance of the imperious Mi s. Pott. 

Mrs. Leo Hunter looked round her in triumph. Count Smorltork was busily 
engaged in taking notes of the contents of the dishes ; Mr. Tupman was doing the 
honours of the lobster salad to several lionesses, with a degree of grace which no 
Brigand ever exhibited before ; Mr. Snodgrass having cut out the young gentle- 
man who cut up the books for the Eatanswill Gazette, was engaged in an im- 
passioned argument with the young lady who did the poetry : and Mr. Pickwick 
was making himself universally agreeable. Nothing seemed wanting to render the 
select circle complete, when Mr. Leo Hunter — whose department on these occa- 
sions, was to stand about in door-ways, and talk to the less important people — 
suddenly called out — 

“ My dear ; here’s Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.” 

“ Oh dear,” said Mrs. Leo Hunter, “ how anxiously I have been expecting him. 
Pray make room, to let Mr. Fitz-Marshall pass. Tell Mr. Fitz-Marshall, my 
dear, to come up to me directly, to be scolded for coming so late.” 

“Coming, my dear ma’am,” cried a voice, “as quick as I can — crowds ol 
people — full room — hard work — ver-y.” 

Mr. Pickwick’s knife and fork fell from his hand. He stared across the table 
at Mr. Tupman, who had dropped his knife and fork, and was looking as if he 
were about to sink into the ground without further notice. 

“ Ah !” cried the voice, as its owner pushed his way among the last five and 
twenty Turks, officers, cavaliers, and Charles the Seconds, that remained between 
him and the table, “ regular mangle — Baker’s patent — not a crease in my coat, 
after all this squeezing— -might have ‘ got up my linen’ as I came along — ha ! ha ! 
not a bad idea, that — queer thing to have it mangled when it’s upon one, though 
— trying process — very.” 

With these broken words, a young man dressed as a naval officer made his way 
up to the table, and presented to the astonished Pickwickians, the identical form 
and features of Mr. Alfred Jingle. 

The offender had barely time to take Mrs. Leo Hunter’s proffered hand, when 
his eyes encountered the indignant orbs of Mr, Pickwick. 


Sudden Departure of Mr. Pickwick. 


“ Hallo ! ” said Jingle. ** Quite forgot — no directions to postilion — give ’em at 
once — back in a minute.” 

*‘ The servant, or Mr. Hunter will do it in a moment, Mr. Fitz-Marshall,” said 
Mrs. Leo Hunter, 

“ No, no — I’ll do it — shan’t be long — back in no time,” replied Jingle. With 
these words he disappeared among the crowd. 

“Will you allow me to ask you, ma’am,” said the excited Mr. Pickwick, rising 
from his seat, “ who that young man is, and where he resides ! ” 

“He is a gentleman of fortune, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Leo Hunter, “to 
whom I very much 'want to introduce you. The Count will be delighted with 

“ Yes, yes,” said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. “ His residence — ” 

“ Is at present at the Angel at Bury.” 

“ At Bury } ” 

“At Bury St. Edmunds, not many miles from here. But dear me, Mr. Pick- 
wick, you are not going to leave us : surely Mr. Pickwick you cannot think of 
going so soon.” 

But long before Mrs. Leo Hunter had finished speaking, Mr. Pickwick had 
plunged through the throng, and reached the garden, whither he was shortly 
afteiAvards joined by Mr. Tupman, who had followed his friend closely. 

“ It’s of no use,” said Mr. Tupman. “ He has gone.” 

“ I know it,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ and I will follow him.” 

“ Follow him ! Where ? ” inquired Mr. 'Eupman. 

“ To the Angel at Bury,” replied Mr. Pickwick, speaking very quickly. “ How 
do we know whom he is deceiving there .? He deceived a worthy man once, and 
we were the innocent cause. He shall not do it again, if I can help it ; I’U expose 
him ! Where’s my servant } ” 

“ Here you are, sir,” said Mr. Weller, emerging from a sequestered spot, where 
he had been engaged in discussing a bottle of Madeira, which he had abstracted 
from the breakfast-table, an hour or two before. “Here’s your servant, sir. 
Proud o’ the titled as the Living Skellinton said, ven they show’d him.” 

“ Follow me instantly,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Tupman, if I stay at Bury, you 
can join me there, when I write. Till then, good-bye ! ” 

Remonstrances were useless. Mr. Pickwick was roused, and his mind was 
made up. Mr. Tupman returned to his companions ; and in another hour had 
drowned all present recollection of Mr. Alfred Jingle, or Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall, 
in an exhilarating quadrille and a bottle of champagne. By that time, Mr. Pick- 
wick and Sam Weller, perched on the outside of a stage coach, were every 
succeeding minute placing a less and less distance between themselves and tlie 
good old town of Bury St. Edmunds. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

TOO FULL OF ADVENTURE TO BE BRIEFLY DESCRIBED. 

There is no month in the whole year, in which nature wears a more beautiful 
appearance than in the month of August. Spring has many beauties, and May is 
a fresh and blooming month, but the charms of this time of year, are enhanced 
by their contrast with the winter season. August has no such advantage. It 
comes when we remember nothing but clear skies, green fields, and sweet-.smelling 

K 


130 


The Pickwick Club. 


flowers — when the recollection of snow, and ice, and bleak winds, has faded fiom 
our minds as completely as they have disappeared from the earth, — and yet wha/ 
a pleasant time it is ! Orchards and corn-fields ring with the hum of labour j 
troes bend beneath the thick clusters of rich fruit which bow their branches to the 
ground ; and the corn, piled in graceful sheaves, or waving in every light breath 
that sweeps above it, as if it wooed the sickle, tinges the landscape with a golden 
hue. A mellow softness appears to hang over the whole earth ; the influence of 
the season seems to extend itself to the very waggon, whose slow motion across 
the well-reaped field, is perceptible only to the eye, but strilces with no hai-sh 
sound upon the ear. 

As the coach rolls swiftly past the fields and orchards which skirt the road, 
groups of women and children, piling the fruit in sieves, or gathering the scattered 
ears of corn, pause for an instant from their labour, and shading the sun-burnt 
face with a still browner hand, gaze upon the passengers with curious eyes, while 
some stout urchin, too small to work, but too mischievous to be left at home, 
scrambles over the side of the basket in which he has been deposited for security, 
and kicks and screams with delight. The reaper stops in his work, and stands 
with folded arms, looking at the vehicle as it whirls past ; and the rough cart 
horses bestow a sleepy glance upon the smart coach team, which says, as plainly 
as a horse’s glance can, “ It’s all very fine to look at, but slow going, over a heaA y 
field, is better than warm work like that, upon a dusty road, after all.” You cast 
a look behind you, as you turn a corner of the road. The women and children 
have resumed their labour : the reaper once more stoops to his work ; the cart- 
horses have moved on : and all are again in motion. 

The influence of a scene like this, was not lost upon the well-regulated mind 
of Mr. Pickwick. Intent upon the resolution he had formed, of exposing the real 
character of the nefarious Jingle, in any quarter in which he might be pursuing 
his fraudulent designs, he sat at first taciturn and contemplative, brooding over the 
means by which his purpose could be best attained. By degi ees his attention 
grew more and more attracted by the objects around him ; and at last he derived 
as much enjoyment from the ride, as if it had been undertaken for the pleasantest 
reason in the world. 

“ Delightful prospect, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Beats the chimley pots, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. 

“ I suppose you have hardly seen anything but chimney-pots and bricks and 
mortar all your life, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. 

“ I worn’t always a boots, sir,” said Mr. Weller, with a shake of the head. “ I 
wos a wagginer’s boy, once.” 

“ When was that .? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“When I wos first pitched neck and crop into the world, to pJay at leap-frog 
with its troubles,” replied Sam. “ I wos a carrier’s boy at startin’ : then a vaggi- 
ner’s, then a helper, then a boots. Now I’m a gen’l’m’n’s sei-vant. I shall be a 
gen’l’m’n myself one of these days, perhaps, with a pipe in my mouth, and a sum- 
mer-house in the back garden. Who knows } /shouldn’t be surprised, for one.” 

“ You are quite a philosopher, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ It runs in the family, I b’lieve, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “ My father’s wery 
much in that line, now. If my mother-in-law blows him up, he whistles. She 
flies in a passion, and breaks his pipe ; he steps out, and gets another. Then she 
screams wery loud, and falls into ’sterics ; and he smokes weiy comfortably ’till 
she comes to agin. That’s philosophy, sir, an’t it } ” 

“ A very good substitute for it, at all events,” replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing. ' 
“ It must have betn of gieat service to you, in the course of your rambling life, 
Sam." 


Mr. IVeLltr's Youthful Trairdng. 131 

Service, sir,” exclaimed Sam. “You may say that. Arter I mn away from 
the carrier, and afore I took up with the wagginer, I had unfurnished lodgin’s for 
a fortnight.” 

“ Unfurnished lodgings ? *’ said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Yes — the dry arches of Waterloo Bridge. Fine sleeping-place — Avithin ten 
minutes’ walk of all the public offices — only if there is any objection to it, it is that 
the sitivation’s rayther too airy. I see some queer sights there.” 

“ Ah, I suppose you did,” said Mr. Pickwick, with an air of considerable 
interest. 

“ Sights, sir,” resumed Mr. Weller, “ as ’ud penetrate your benevolent heart, 
and come out on the other side. You don’t see the reg’lar wagrants there ; trust 
’em, they knows better than that. Young beggars, male and female, as hasn’t 
made a rise in their profession, takes up their quarters there sometimes ; but it’s 
generally the worn-out, starving, houseless creeturs as rolls themselves in the dark 
corners o’ them ’onesome places — poor creeturs as an’t up to the twopenny rope.” 

“ And pray, Sam, what is the twopenny rope } ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ The twopenny rope, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, “ is just a cheap lodgin’ house, 
where the beds is twopence a night.” 

“ What do they call a bed a rope for ? ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Bless your innocence, sir, that a’nt it,” replied Sam. “ Wen the lady and 
gen’l’m’n as keeps the Hot-el first begun business they used to make the beds ca 
the floor; but this wouldn’t do at no price, ’cos instead o’ taking a moderate tP/O- 
penn’orth o’ sleep, the lodgers used to lie there half the day. So now they bas 
two ropes, ’bout six foot apart, and three from the floor, which goes right dc wn 
the room ; and the beds are made of slips of coarse sacking, stretched across ’em.” 

“ Well,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Weller, “ the adwantage o’ the plan’s hobvious. At six 
o’clock every mornin’ th^ lets go the ropes at one end, and down falls all the 
lodgers. ’Consequence is, that being thoroughly waked, they get up weiy quietly, 
and walk away ! Beg your pardon, sir,” said Sam, suddenly brealcing off in his 
loquacious discourse. “ Is this Bury St. Edmunds ? ” 

“ It is,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

The coach rattled through the well-paved streets of a handsome little town, of 
thriving and cleanly appearance, and stopped before a large inn situated in a wide 
open street, nearly facing the old abbey. 

“ And this,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking up, “ is the Angel ! We alight here, 
Sam. But some caution is necessaiy. Order a private room, and do not mention 
my name. You understand.” 

“ Right as a trivet, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, with a wink of intelligence ; and 
having dragged Mr. Pickwick’s portmanteau from the hind boot, into which it had 
been hastily thrown when they joined the coach at Eatanswill, Mr. Weller dis- 
appeared on his errand. A private room was speedily engaged ; and into it Mr. 
Pickwick was ushered without delay. 

“ Now Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ the first thing to be done is to — ” 

“ Order dinner, sir,” inteiposed Mr. Weller. “ It’s wery late, sir.” 

“Ah, so it is,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. “You are right, 
Sam.” 

“ And if I might adwise, sir,” added Mr. Weller, “ I’d just have a good nighV/ 
rest arterwards, and not begin inquiring arter this here deep ’un ’till the morn'ki . 
There’s nothin’ so refreshin’ as sleep, sir, as the seiwant-girl said afore she d' ank 
the egg-cupful o’ laudanum.” 

“ I think you are right, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. •* But I must first ast^.atain 
that he is in the house, and not likely to go away.” 


t3 2 The Pickwick Clhi‘. 

“ Leave that to me, sir,” said Sam. “ Let me order you a snug little dinner, 
and make my inquiries below while it’s a getting ready ; I could worm ev’ry secret 
out o’ the boots’s heart, in five minutes, sir.” 

“ Do so,” said Mr. Pickwick : and Mr. Weller at once retired. 

In half an hour, Mr. Pickwick was seated at a very satisfactory dinner ; and in 
three-quarters Mr. Weller returned with the intelligence that Mr. Charles Fi'./- 
Marshall had ordered his private room to be retained for him, until further notice. 
He was going to spend the evening at some private house in the neighbourhood, 
had ordered the boots to sit up until his return, and had taken his servant with 
him. 

“ Now, sir,” argued Mr. Weller, when he had concluded his report, “ if I can 
get a talk with this here sei-vant in the mornin’, he’ll teU me ^1 his master’s 
concerns.” 

“ How do you know that ? ” infeiposed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Bless your heart, sir, sei-vants always do,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ Oh, aK, I forgot that,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Well.” 

“ Then you can arrange what’s best to be done, sir, and we can act according.” 

As it appeared that this was the best arrangement that could be made, it was 
finally agreed upon. Mr. Weller, by his master’s permission, retired to spend the 
evening in his own way ; and was shortly afterwards elected, by the unanimous 
voice of the assembled company, into the tap-room chair, in which honourable 
post he acquitted himself so much to the satisfaction of the gentlemen-frequenters, 
that their roars of laughter and approbation penetrated to Mr. Pickwick’s bed- 
room, and shortened the term of his natural rest by at least three hours. 

Early on the ensuing morning, Mr. Weller was dispelling all the feverish 
remains of the previous evening’s conviviality, through the instrumentality of a 
halfpenny shower-bath (having induced a young gentleman attached to the stable- 
department, by the offer of that coin, to pump over his head and face, until he was 
perfectly restored)., when he was attracted by the appearance of a young fellow in 
mulberry-coloured livery, who was sitting on a bench in the yard, reading what 
appeared to be a h^mn-book, with an air of deep abstraction, but who occasionally 
stole a glance at the individual under the pump, as if he took some interest in his 
proceedings, nevertheless. 

“ You’re a rum ’un to look at, you are ! ” thought Mr. Weller, the first time 
his eyes encountered the glance of the stranger in the mulberry suit : who had a 
large, sallow, ugly face, very sunken eyes, and a gigantic head, from which 
depended a quantity of lank black hair. “ You’re a rum ’un ! ” thought Mr. 
Weller ; and thinking this, he went on washing himself, and thought no more 
about him. 

Still the man kept glancing from his hymn-book to Sam, and from Sam to his 
hymn-book, as if he wanted to opeai a conversation. So at last, Sam, by way of 
giving him an opportunity, said with a familiar nod — 

“ How are you, governor ? ” 

“ I am happy to say, I am pretty well, sir,” said the man, speaking with great 
deliberation, and closing the book. “ I hope you are the same, sir ? ” 

“Why, if I felt less like a walking brandy-bottle, I shouldn’t be quite 
so staggery this mornin’,” replied Sam. “Aie you stoppin’ in this house, 
old ’un ? ” 

The muberry man eplied in the affirmative. 

“ How was it, youworn’t one of us, last night ? ” inquired Sam, scrubbing bis 
face with the towel. “ You seem one of the jolly sort — looks as conwivial as a 
live trout in a lime basket,” added Mr. Weller, in an under tone. 

“ I was out last night, with my master,” replied the stranger. 


Mr, Jdh Trotter is treatea. 


“ WTiat’s his name ?'’ inquired Mr. Weller, colouring up very red with sudden 
excitement, and the friction of the tovel combined. 

“ Fitz-Marshall,” said the mulberry man. 

“ Give us your hand,” said Mr. Weller, advancing ; “ I should lilce to know you. 
I like your appearance, old fellow.” 

“Well, that is very strange,” said the mulberry man, with great simplicity of 
manner. “ I like your’s so much, that I wanted to speak to you, from the very 
first moment I saw you under the pump.” 

“ Did you though ? ” 

“ Upon my word. Now, isn’t that curious.” 

“ Wery sing’ler,” said Sam, inwardly congratulating himself upon the softness 
of the stranger. “ What’s your name, my patriarch ? ” 

“Job.” 

“ And a wery good name it is — only one I know, that ain’t got a nickname ta 
it. What’s the other name ? ” 

“ Trotter,” said the stranger. “ What is yours ! ” 

Sam bore in mind his master’s caution, and replied. 

“My name’s Walker; my master’s name’s Wilkins. Will you take a drop o’ 
somethin’ this momin’, Mr. Trotter ? ” 

Mr. Trotter acquiesced in this agreeable proposal ; and having deposited his 
book in his coat-pocket, accompanied Mr. Weller to the tap, where they were 
soon occupied in discussing an exhilarating compound, formed by mixing together, 
in a pewter vessel, certain quantities of British Hollands, and the fragrant essence 
of the clove. 

“ And what sort of a place have you got ? ” inquired Sam, as he filled his 
companion’s glass, for the second time. 

“ Bad,” said Job, smacking his lips, “ very bad.” 

“ You don’t mean that ? ” said Sam. 

“ I do, indeed. Worse than that, my master’s going to be married.” 

“No.” 

“ Yes ; and worse than that, too, he’s going to run away with an immense rich 
heiress, from boarding-school.” 

“ What a dragon ! ” said Sam, refilling his companion’s glass. “ It’s some 
boarding-school in this town, I suppose, a’nt it ? ” 

Now, akhough this question was put in the most careless tone imaginable, Mr. 
Job Trotter plainly showed by gestures, that he perceived his new friend’s anxiety 
to draw forth an answer to it. He emptied his glass, looked mysteriously at his 
companion, winked both of his small eyes, one after the other, and finally made a 
motion with his arm, as if he were working an imaginary pump-handle : thereby 
intimating that he (Mr. Trotter) considered himself as undergoing the process itf 
being pumped, by Mr. Samuel Weller. 

“ No, no,” said Mr. Trotter, in conclusion, “ that’s not be told to everybody. 
That is a secret — a great secret, Mr. Walker.” 

As the mulberry man said this, he turned his glass upside down, as a means of 
reminding his companion that he had nothing left wherewith to slake his thirst. 
Sam observed the hint ; and feeling the delicate manner in which it was conveyed, 
ordered the pewter vessel to be refilled, whereat the small eyes of the mulben^ 
man glistened. 

“And so it’s a secret ? ” said Sam. 

“ I should rather suspect it was,” said the mulberry man, sipping his liquor, 
with a complacent face. 

“ I suppose your mas’r ’s wery rich ? ” said Sam. 

Mr. Trotter smiled, and holding his glass in his left hand, gave four distinct 


*34 


The Pickwick Chib. 


slaps on the pocket of his mulbeiry indescribables with his right, as if to inti- 
mate that his master might have done the same without alarming anybody much, 
by the chinking of coin. 

“ Ah,” said Sam, “ that’s the game, is it ? ” 

The mulbeny^ man nodded significantly. 

“ Well, and don’t you think, old feller,” remonstrated Mr. Weller, “ that if you 
let your master take in this here young lady, you’re a precious rascal ” 

“ I know that,” said Job Trotter, turning upon hi* companion a countenance of 
deep contrition, and groaning slightly. “ I know that, and that’s what it is that 
preys upon my mind. Bnt what am I to do ? ” 

“ Do ! ” said Sam ; “ di-wulge to the missis, and give up your master.” 

“ Who’d believe me ? ” replied Job Trotter. “ The young lady’s considered the 
veiy picture of innocence and discretion. She’d deny it, and so would my master. 
Who’d believe me ? 1 should lose my place, and get indicted for a conspiracy, or 

some such thing ; that’s all I should take by my motion.” 

“ There’s somethin’ in that,” said Sam, ruminating ; “ there’s somethin’ in 
that.” 

“ If I knew any respectable gentleman who would take the matter up,” con- 
tinued Mr. Trotter, “ I might have some hope of preventing the elopement ; 
but there’s the same difficulty, Mr. Walker, just the same. I know no gentleman 
in this strange place, and ten to one if I did, whether he would believe my story.” 

“Come this way,” said Sam, suddenly jumping up, and grasping the mulberry 
man by the arm. “ My mas’r ’s the man you want, I see.” And after a slight 
resistance on the part of Job Trotter, Sam led his newly-found friend to the apart- 
ment of Mr. Pickwick, to whom he presented him, together with a brief summary 
of the dialogue we have just repeated. 

“ I am very sorry to betray my master, sir,” said Job Trotter, applying to his 
eyes a pink checked pocket handkerchief about six inches square. 

“ The feeling does you a great deal of honour,” replied Mr. Pickwick; “ but it is 
your duty, nevertheless.” 

“ I know it IS my duty, sir,” replied Job, with great emotion. “ We should all 
try to discharge our duty, sir, and I humbly endeavour to discharge mine, sir ; but 
it is a hard trial to betray a master, sir, whose clothes you wear, and whose bread 
you eat, even though he is a scoundrel, sir.” 

“You are a very good fellow,” said hir. Pickwick, much affected, “ an honest 
fellow.” 

“ Come come,” interposed Sam, who had witnessed Mr. Trotter’s tears with 
considerable impatience, “blow this here water-cart bis’ness. It won’t do no 
good, this won’t.” 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, reproachfully, “I am sorry to find that you have 
so little respect for this young man’s feelings.” 

“ His feelins is all wery well, 'sir,” replied Mr. Weller ; “ and as they’re so wery 
fine, and it’s a pity he should lose ’em, I think he’d better keep ’em in his own 
buzzum, than let ’em ewaporate in hot water, ’specially as they do no good. Tears 
never yet wound up a clock, or worked a steam ingen’. The next time you go out 
to a smoking party, young fellow, fill your pipe \vith that ’ere reflection ; and for the 
present just put that bit of pink gingham into your pocket. ’T’an’t so handsome 
that you need keep waving it about, as if you was a tight-rope dancer.” 

“My man is in the right,” said Mr. Pickwick, accosting Job, “although his 
mode of expressing his opinion is somewhat homely, and occasionally incompre- 
hensible.” 

“ He is, sir, veiy right,” said Mr. Trotter, “ and I will give way no longer.” 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Now, where is this boarding-school ? ” 


Penitent Proposal of Mr. Trotter. 13 ^ 

“It is a large, old, red-brick house, just outside the town, sir,’- replied Job 
Trotter. 

“ And when,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ when is this villanous design to be carried 
into execution — when is this elopement to take place ? ” 

“ To-night, sir,” replied Job. 

“ To-night !” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ This very night, sir,” replied Job Trotter. “ That is what alarms me so much. ’* 

“Instant measures must be taken,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I will see the lad., 
who keeps the establishment immediately.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Job, “ but that course of proceeding will never do,” 

“ Why not ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ My master, sir, is a very artful man.” 

“ I know he is,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“And he has so wound himself round the old lady’s heart, sir,” resumed Job, 
“ that she would believe nothing to his prejudice, if you went down on your b^r<3 
knees, and swore it ; especially as you have no proof but the word of a servant, who, 
for anything she knows (and my master would be sure to say so), was discharged 
for some fault, and does this in revenge.” 

“ What had better be done, then said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Nothing but taking him in the very fact of eloping, will convince th» old lady, 
sir,” replied J-ob. 

“ All them old cats will run their heads agin mile-stones,” observed Mr. Weller 
in a parenthesis. 

“But this taking him in the very act of elopement, would be a very difficult 
thing to accomplish, I fear,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“I don’t know, sir,” said Mr. Trotter, after a few moments’ reflection. “I 
think it might be very easily done.” 

“ How ?” was Mr. Pickwick’s inquiry. 

“ Why,” replied Mr. Trotter, “ my master and I, being in the confidence of the 
two servants, will be secreted in the kitchen at ten o’clock. When the family 
have retired to rest, we shall come out of the kitchen, and the young lady out of 
her bed-room^ A post-chaise will be waiting, and away we go.” 

“ Well ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Well, sir, I have been thinking that if you were in waiting in the garden 
behind, alone — ” 

“ Alone,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Wliy alone ?” 

“ I thought it very natural,” replied Job, “ that the old lady wouldn’t like such 
an unpleasant discovery to be made before more persons than can possibly be 
helped. The young lady too, sir — consider her feelings.” 

“You are very right,” said Mr. Pickwick. “The consideration evinces your 
delicacy of feeling. Go on ; you are very right.” 

“ Well sir, I have been thinking that if you were waiting in the back garden 
alone, and I was to let you in, at the door which opens into it, from the end of the 
passage, at exactly half-past eleven o’clock, you would be just in the very moment 
of time to assist me in fiiistrating the designs of this bad man, by whom I have 
been unfortunately ensnared.” Here Mr. Trotter sighed deeply. 

“ Don’t distress yourself on that account^” said Mr. Pickwick, “if he had one 
giain of the delicacy of feeling which distinguishes you, humble as yoi^ station is, 
I should have some hopes of him.” 

Job Trotter bowed low ; and in spite of Mr. Weller’s previous remonstrance, the 
tears again rose to his eyes. 

“ I never see such a feller,” said Sara. “ Blessed if I don’t think he’s got a 
main in his head as is always turned on.” 


The Pickwick Clul, 




** Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, with great severity. Hold your tongue.” 

“Werry well, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“I don’t like this plan,” said Mr. Pickwick, after deep meditation. “Why 
cannot I communicate with the young lady’s friends ?” 

“ Because they live one hundred miles from here, sir,” responded Job Trotter. 

“That’s a clincher,” said Mr. Weller, aside. 

“ Then this garden,” resumed Mr. Pickwick. “ How am I to get into it ?” 

“ The wall is very low, sir, and your servant will give you a leg up.” 

“ My servant will give me a leg up,” repeated Mr. Pickwick, mechanically. 
“You will be sure to be near this door that you speak of ? ” 

“You cannot mistake it, sir ; it’s the only one that opens into the garden. Tap 
a it when you hear the clock strike, and I will open it instantly.” 

■T don’t like the plan,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ but as I see no other, and as the 
happiness of this young lady’s whole life is at stake, I adopt it. I shall be sure to 
be there.” 

Thus, for the second time, did Mr. Pickwick’s innate good-feeling involve him 
in an enterprise from which he would most willingly have stood aloof. 

“What is the name of the house ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Westgate House, sir. You turn a little to the right when you get to the end of 
the town ; it stands by itself, some little distance off the high road, with the name 
on a brass plate on the gate.” 

“ I know it,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ I observed it once before, when I was in 
this town. You may depend upon me.” 

Mr. Trotter made another bow, and turned to depart, when Mr. Pickwick thrust 
a guinea into his hand. 

“ You’re a fine fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ and I admire your goodness of 
heart. No thanks. Remember — eleven o’clock.” 

“There is no fear of my forgetting it, sir,” replied Job Trotter. With these 
words he left the room, followed by Sam. 

“ I say,” said the latter, “ not a bad notion that ’ere crying. I’d cry like a rain- 
water spout in a shower on such good terms. How do you do it ? ” 

“It conies from the heart, Mr. Walker,” replied Job, solemnly. “ Good morn- 
ing, sir.” 

“You’re a soft customer, you are; — we’ve got it all out o’ you, any how,” 
thought Mr. Weller, as Job walked away. 

We cannot state the precise nature of the thoughts which passed through 
Mr. Trotter’s mind, because Ave don’t know what they were. 

The day wore on, evening came, and at a little before ten o’clock Sam Weller 
reported that Mr. Jingle and Job had gone out together, that their luggage was 
packed up, and that they had ordered a chaise. The plot was evidently in execu- 
tion, as Mr. Trotter had foretold. 

Half-past ten o’clock arrived, and it Avas time for Mr. Pickwick to issue forth on 
his delicate errand. Resisting Sam’s tender of his great-coat, in order that he 
might have no incumbrance in scaling the wall, he set forth, folloAved by his 
attendant. 

There was a bright moon, but it was behind the clouds. It was a fine dry 
night, but it was most uncommonly dark. Paths, hedges, fields, houses, and trees, 
were enveloped in one deep shade. The atmosphere was hot and sultry, the 
summer lightning quivered faintly on the verge of the horizon, and was the only 
sight that varied the dull gloom in which everything Av^as Avrapped — sound there 
was none, except the distant barking of some restless house-dog. 

They found the house, read the brass-plate, walked round the wall, and stopped 
at that portion of it which divided them from the bottom of the garden. 


Mr. Pickwick lies in Amhush. 


“You will return to the inn, Sam, when you have assisted me over,” said 
Mr. Pickwick. 

“Wery well, sir.” 

“ And you will sit up, ’till I return.” 

“ Cert’nly, sir.” 

“ Take hold of my leg ; and, when I say * Over,* raise me gently.’* 

“ All right, sir.” 

Having settled these preliminaries, Mr. Pickwick grasped the top of the 
wall, and gave the word “ Over,” which was very literally obeyed. Whether 
his body partook in some degree of the elasticity of his mind, or whether 
Ml Weller’s notions of a gentle push were of a somewhat rougher description 
than Mr. Pickwick’s, the immediate effect of his assistance was to jerk that im- 
mortal gentleman completely over the wall on to the bed beneath, where, after 
crushing tliree gooseberry-bushes and a rose-tree, he finally alighted at full 
length. 

“ You ha’n’t hurt yourself, I hope, sir ?” said Sam, in a loud whisper, as soon 
as he recov,ered from the surprise consequent upon the mysterious disappearance 
of his master. 

“ I have not hurt myself^ Sam, certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick, from the other 
side of the wall, “ but I rather thinlc that you have hurt me.” 

“ I hope not, sir,” said Sam. 

“Never mind,” said Mr. Pickwick, rising, “it’s nothing but a f6w scratches. 
Go away, or we shall be overheard.” 

“ Good-bye, sir.” 

“ Good-bye.” 

With stealthy steps Sam Weller departed, leaving Mr. Pickwick alone in the 
garden. 

Lights occasionally appeared in the different windows of the house, or glanced 
from the staircases, as if the inmates were retiring to rest. Not caring to go too 
near the door, until the appointed time, Mr. Pickwick crouched into an angle of 
the wall, and awaited its arrival. 

It was a situation which might well have depressed the spirits of many a man. 
Mr. Pickwick, however, felt neither depression nor itiisgiving. He knew that his 
purpose was in the main a good one, and he placed implicit reliance on the 
high-minded Job. It was dull, certainly ; not to say, dreary ; but a contemplative 
man can always employ himself in meditation. Mr. Pickwick had meditated him- 
self into a doze, when he was roused by the chimes of the neighbouring church 
ringing out the hour — half-past eleven. 

“ That is the time,” thought Mr. Pickwick, getting cautiously on his feet. He 
looked up at the house. The lights had disappeared, and the shutters were closed 
— all in bed, no doubt. He walked on tip-toe to the door, and gave a gentle tap. 
Two or three minutes passing without any reply, he gave another tap rather louder, 
and then another rather louder than that. 

At length the sound of feet was audible upon the stairs, and then the light of a 
candle shone through the key-hole of the door. There was a good deal of un 
chaining and unbolting, and the door was slowly opened. 

Now the door opened outwards ; and as the door opened wider and wider, Mr. 
Pickwick receded behind it, more and more. What was his astonishment when 
he just peeped out, by way of caution, to see that the person who had opened it 
was — not Job Trotter, but a servant-girl with a candle in her harwl ! Mr. Pick- 
wick drew in his head again, with the swiftness displayed by that admirable mela 
dramatic performer. Punch, when he hes in wait for the flat-headed comedian with 
the dn box of music. 


The Pickwick dub. 


135 

“It must have t)een the cat, Sarah,” said the girl, addiessing herself to some 
one in the house. “ Puss, puss, puss, — tit, tit, tit.” 

But no animal being decoyed by these blandishments, the ^rl slowly closed the 
door, and re-fastened it ; leaving Mr. Pickwick drawn up straight against the wall. 

“ This is very curious,” thought Mr. Pickwick. “ They are sitting up beyond 
their usual hour, I suppose. Extremely unfortunate, that they should have chosen 
this night, of all others, for such a purpose — exceedingly.” And with these 
thoughts, Mr. Pickwick cautiously retired to the angle of the wall in which he 
had beG«n before ensconced ; waiting until such time as he might de^m it safe to 
repeat the signal. 

He had not been here five minutes, when a vivid flash of lightning was followed 
by a loud peal of thunder that crashed and rolled away in the distance wV.h a 
terrific noise — then came another flash of lightning, brighter than the other, and 
a second peal of thunder louder than the first ; and then down come the rain, with 
a force and fury that swept everything before it. 

Mr. Pickwick was perfectly aware that a tree is a very dangerous neighbour in 
a thunder-storm. He had a tree on his rig-ht, a tree on his left, a third before him, 
and a fourth behind. If he remained where he was, he might fall the victim of 
an accident ; if he showed himself in the centre of the garden, he might be con- 
signed to a constable ; — once or twice he tried to scale the wall, but having no 
other legs this time, than those with which Nature had furnished him, fhe only 
efi'ect of his struggles was to inflict a variety of very unpleasant gratings on his 
knees and shins, and to throw him into a state of the most profuse perspiration. 

“What a dreadful situation,” said Mr. Pickwick, pausing to wipe his brow 
after this exercise. He looked up at the house — all was dark. They must be 
gone to bed now. He would try the signal again. 

He walked on tip-toe across the moist gravel, and tapped at the door. Ke 
held his breath, and listened at the key-hole. No reply : very odd. Another 
knock. He listened again. There was a low whispering inside, and then a voice 
cried — 

“ Who’s there ? ” 

“That’s not Job,” thought Mr. Pickwick, hastily drawing himself straight up 
against the wall again. “ It’s a woman.” 

He had scarcely had time to form this conclusion, when a window above stairs 
was thrown up, and three or four female voices repeated the query — “ Who’s 
there ? ” 

Mr. Pickwick dared not move hand or foot. It was clear that the whole estab- 
lishment was roused. He made up his mind to remain where he was, until the 
alarm had subsided : and then by a supernatmal effort, to get over the wall, or 
perish in the attempt. 

Like all Mr. Pickwick’s determinations, this was the best that could be made 
under the circumstances ; but, unfortunately, it was founded upon the assumption 
that they would not vej ture to open the door again. What was his discomfiture, 
when he heard the chait and bolts withdrawn, and saw the door slowly opening, 
wider and wider ! He retreated Into the comer, step by step ; but do what he 
would, the interposition of his own person, prevented its being opened to its 
utmost width. 

“ Who’s there ? ” screamed a numerous chorus of treble voices from the stair- 
case inside, consisting of the spinster lady of the establishment, three teachers, 
five female servants, and thirty boarders, all half-dressed, and in a forest of curl- 
papere. 

Of course Mr. Pickwick didn’t say who was there : and then the burden of the 
chorus changed into — “ Lor’ ! I am so frightened.” 


The Man hehind the Door. 


“ Cc'ok,” said the lady abbess, who took care to be on the top stair, the very 
last of the group — “ Cook, why don’t you go a little way into the garden ? ” 

“Please, ma’am, I don’t like,” responded the cook. 

“ Lor’, what a stupid thing that cook is ! ” said the thirty boarders. 

“ Cook,” said the lady abbess, with great dignity ; “ don’t answer me, if you 
please. I insist upon your looking into the garden immediately,” 

Here the cook began to cry, and the house-maid said it was “ a shame ! ” for 
which partisanship she received a month’s warning on the spot. 

“ Do you hear, cook ? ” said the lady abbess, stamping her foot impatiently. 

“ Don’t you hear your missis, cooli ? ” said the three teachers. 

“ What an impudent thing, that cook is ! ” said the thirty boarders. 

The unfortunate cook, thus strongly urged, advanced a step or two, and holding 
her candle just where it prevented her from seeing anything at all, declared there 
was nothing there, and it must have been the wind. The door was just going to 
be closed in consequence, when an inquisitive boarda-, who had been peeping be- 
tween the hinges, set up a fearful screaming, which called back the cook and the 
housemaid, and all the more adventurous, in no time. 

“ What is the matter with Miss Smithers ? ” said the lady abbess, as the afore- 
said Miss Smithers proceeded to go into hysterics of four young lady power. 

“ Lor’, Miss Smithers dear,” said the other nine-and-twenty boarders. 

“ Oh, the man — the man — behind the door! ” screamed Aliss Smithers. 

The lady abbess no sooner heard this appalling ciy, than she retreated to her 
own bed-room, double-locked the door, and fainted awa}'^ comfortabl 5 % The 
boarders, and the teachers, and the sen-ants, fell back upon the stairs, and upon 
each other; and never was such a screaming, and fainting, and struggling, beheld. 
In the midst of the tumult, Mr. Pickwick emerged from his concealment, and 
presented himself amongst them. 

“Ladies — dear ladies,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Oh, he says we ’re dear,” cried the oldest and ugliest teacher. “ Oh the wretch I ” 

“ Ladies,” roared Mr. Pickwick, rendered desperate by the danger of his situa* 
tion. “ Hear me. I am no robber. I want the lady of the house.” 

“Oh, what a ferocious monster 1 ” screamed another teacher. “ He wants Miss 
Tomkins.” 

Here there was a general scream. 

“ Ring the alarm bell, somebody I ” cried a dozen voices. 

“Don’t — don’t,” shouted Mr. Pickwick. “Look at me. Do I look like a 
robber I My dear ladies — you may bind me hand and leg, or lock me up in a 
closet, if you like. Only hear what I have got to say — only hear me.” 

“ How did you come in our garden ? ” faltered the housemaid. 

“Call the lady of the house, and I’ll tell her everything — everjdhing : ” said 
Mr. Pickwick, exerting his lungs to the utmost pitch. “ Call her — only be quiet, 
and call her, and you shall hear everything.” 

It might have been Mr. Pickwick’s appearance, or it might have been his man- 
ner, or it might have been the temptation — irresistible to a female mind — of 
hearing something at present enveloped in mystery, that reduced the more reason- 
able portion of die establishment (some four individuals) to a state of comparative 
quiet. By them it was proposed, as a test of hir. Pickwick’s sincerity, that he 
should immediately submit to personal restraint ; and that gentleman having 
consented to hold a conference with Miss Tomkins, from the interior of a closet 
in which the day boarders hung their bonnets and sandwich-bags, he at once 
stepped into it, of his own accord, and was securely locked in. This revived the, 
others ; and Miss Tomkins having been brought to, and brought down, the con- 
ference began. 


140 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ What did you do in my garden, Man ? ” said Miss Tomkins, in a faint voice. 

“ I came to warn yon, that one of your young ladies was going to elope to- 
night,” replied Mr. Pickwick, from the interior of the closet. 

“ Elope !” exclaimed Miss Tomkins, the three teachers, the thirty boarders, 
and the five servants. “ Who with } ” 

“ Your friend, Mr. Charles Fitz-Marshall.” 

“ My friend ! I don’t know any such person.” 

“Well; Mr. Jingle, then.” 

“ I never heard the name in my life.” 

“ Then, I have been deceived, and deluded,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ I have 
been the victim of a conspiracy — a foul and base conspiracy. Send to the Angel, 
my dear ma’am, if you don’t believe me. Send to the Angel for Mr. Pickwick’s 
man-servant, I implore you ma’am.” 

“ He must be respectable— he keeps a man-servant,” said Miss Tomkins to thft 
writing and ciphering governess. 

“ It’s my opinion. Miss Tomkins,” said the writing and ciphering governess, 
“ that his man-servant keeps him. / think he’s a madman. Miss Tomkins, and 
the other’s his keeper.” 

“ I think you are very right. Miss Gwynn,” re-eponded Miss Tomkins. “ Let 
two of the servants repair to the Angel, and let the others remain here, to pro- 
tect us.” 

So two of the servants were despatched to the Angel in search of Mr. Samuel 
Weller : and the remaining three stopped behind to protect Miss Tomkins, and 
the three teachers, and the thirty boarders. And Mr. Pickwick sat down in the 
closet, beneath a grove of sandwich bags, and awaked the return of the mes- 
sengers, with all the philosophy and fortitude he could summon to his aid. 

An hour and a half elapsed before they came back, and when they did come, 
Mr. Pickwick recognised, in addition to the voice of Mr. Samuel Weller, two other 
voices, the tones of which struck familiarly on his ear ; but whose they were, he 
could not for the life of him call to mind. 

A very brief conversation ensued. The door was unlocked. Mr. Piclcwick 
stepped out of the closet, and found himself in the presence of the whole estab- 
lishment of Westgate House, Mr. Samuel Weller, and — old Wardle, and his 
destined son-in-law, Mr. Trundle ! 

“ My dear friend,” said Mr. Pickwick, running forward and grasping Wardle’s 
hand, “ my dear friend, pray, for Heaven’s sake, explain to this lady the un- 
fortunate and dreadful situation in which I am placed. You must have heard it 
from my servant ; say, at aU events, my dear fellow, that I am neither a robber 
nor a madman.” 

“ I have said so, my dear friend. I have said so already,” replied Mr. Wardle, 
shaking the right hand of his friend, while Mr. Trundle shook the left. 

“ And whoever says, or has said, he is,” interposed Mr. Weller, stepping for- 
ward, “says that which is not the truth, but so far from it, on the contrary, quite 
the rewerse. And if there’s any number o’ men on these here premises as has 
said so, I shall be wery happy to give ’em all a wery convincing proof o’ their 
being mistaken, in this here wery room, if these wery respectable ladies ’ll have 
the goodness to retire, and order ’em up, one at a time.” Having delivered this 
defiance with great volubility, Mr. .Weller struck his open palm emphatically wkh 
his clenched fist, and winked pleasantly on Miss Tomkins : the intensity of whoso 
horror at his supposing it within the bounds of possibility that there could be any 
men on the premises of Westgate House Establishment for Young Ladies, it is 
impossible to desfcribe. 

Mr. Pickwick’s explanation having already been partially made, was soon con- 


Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Weller Crest-fallen. 14 1 

chided. But neither in the course of his walk home with his friends, nor afterwards 
when seated before a blazing fire at the supper he so much needed, could a single 
observation be drawn fron. him. He seemed bewildered and amazed. Once, 
and only once, he turned round to Mr. Wardle, and said 

“ How did you come here } ” 

“ Trun^e and I came down here, for some good shooting on the first,” replied 
Wardle. ' “We arrived to-night, and were astonished to hear from your servant 
that you were here too. But I am glad you are,” said the old fellow, slapping 
him on the back. “ I am glad you are. We shall have a jovial party on the 
first, and we’ll give Winkle another chance — eh, old boy } ” 

Mr. Pickwick made no reply ; he did not even ask after his friends at Dingley 
Dell, and shortly afterwards retired for the night, desiring Sam to fetch his candle 
when he iimg. 

The bell did ring in due course, and Mr. Weller presented himself. 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking out from under the bed-clothes. 

“ Sir,” said Mi Weller. 

Mr. Pickwick paused, and Mr. Weller snuffed the candle. 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick again, as if with a desperate effort. 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Weller, once more. 

“ Where is that Trotter ?” 

“Job, sir?” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Gone, sir.” 

“With his master, I suppose ?” 

“ Friend or master, or whatever he is, he’s gone with him,” replied Mr. Weller. 

There’s a pair on ’em, sir.” 

“ Jingle suspected my design, and set that fellow on you, with this story, I 
suppose ?” said Mr. Pickwick, half choking. 

“Just that, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“It was all false, of course ?” 

“All, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “ Reg’lar do, sir; artful dodge.” 

“ I don’t think he’ll escape us quite so easUy the next time, Sam ? ” said 
Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I don’t think he will, sir.” 

“Whenever I meet that Jingle again, wherever it is,” said Mr. Pickwick, 
raising himself in bed, and indenting his pillow with a tremendous blow, “I’ll 
inflict personal chastisement on him, in addition to the exposure he so richly merits. 
I will, or my name is not Pickwick.” 

“And wenever I catches hold o’ that there melan-cholly chap with the black 
hair,” said Sam, “ if I don’t bring some real water into his eyes, for once in a way, 
my name a’nt Weller. Good night, sir 1 ” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

SHOWING THAT AN ATTACK OF RHEUMATISM, IN SOME CASES, ACTS AS A 
QUICKENER TO INVENTIVE GENIUS. 

The omstiti tion of Mr. Pickwick, though able to sustain a very considerable 
amount of exertion and fatigue, was not proof against such a combination of 
attacks .as he had undergone on the memorable night, recorded in the last chapter. 


142 


The Pickwick Club. 


The process of being washed in the night air, and rough-dried in a closet, is aa 
dangerous as it is peculiar. Mr. Pickwick was laid up with an attack of rheumatism. 

But although the bodily powers of the gi'eat man were thus impaired, his mental 
energies retained their pristine vigour. His spirits were elastic ; his good humou. 
was restored. Even the vexation consequent upon his recent adventure had 
vanished from his mind ; and he could join in the hearty laughter which any allusion 
to it excited in Mr. Wardle, without anger and without embarrassment. Nay, 
more. During the two days Mr. Pickwick was confined to his bed, Sam was his 
constant attendant. On the first, he endeavoured to amuse his master by anecdote 
and conversation ; on the second, Mr. Pickwick demanded his writing-desk, and 
pen and ink, and was deeply engaged during the whole day. On the third, being 
able to sit up in his bed-chamber, he despatched his valet with a message to 
Mr. Wardle and Mr. Trundle, intimating that if they would take their wine there, 
that evening, they would greatly oblige him. The invitation was most willingly 
accepted ; and when they were seated over their wine, Mr. Pickwick with sundry 
blushes, produced the following little tale, as having been “edited” by himself, 
during has recent indisposition, from his notes of Mr. Weller’s unsophisticated 
recital. 

THE PARISH CLERK. 

A TALE OF TRUE LOVE. 

*' Once upon a time in a very small country town, at a considerable distance 
from London, there lived a little man named Nathaniel Pipkin, who was the 
parish clerk of the little town, and lived in a little house in the little High Street, 
within ten minutes’ walk of the little church ; and who was to be found every day 
from nine till four, teaching a little learning to the little boys. Nathaniel Pipkin 
was a harmless, inoffensive, good-natmed being, with a tumed-up nose, and rather 
tumed-in legs : a cast in his eye, and a halt in his gait ; and he divided his time 
between the church and his school, verily believing that there existed not, on the 
face of the earth, so clever a man as the curate, so imposing an apartment as the 
vestiy^-room, or so well-ordered a seminary as his own. Once, and only once, in 
his life, Nathaniel Pipkin had seen a bishop — a real bishop, with his arms in lawn 
sleeves, and his head in a wig. He had seen him walk, and heard him talk, at a 
confirmation, on which momentous occasion Nathaniel Pipkin was so overcome 
with reverence and awe, when the aforesaid bishop laid his hand on his head, that 
he fainted right clean away, and was borne out of church in the arms of the beadle. 

“ This was a great event, a tremendous era, in Nathaniel Pipkin’s life, and it 
was the only one that had ever occurred to ruffle the smooth current of his quiet 
existence, when happening one fine afternoon, in a fit of mental abstraction, to 
raise his eyes from the slate on which he was devising some tremendous problem 
in compound addition for an offending urchin to solve, they suddenly rested on 
the blooming countenance of Maria Lobbs, the only daughter of old Lobbs, the 
gieat saddler over the way. Now, the eyes of ' Mr. Pipkin had rested on the 
pi etty face of Maria Lobbs many a time and oft before, at church and elsewhere ; 
but the eyes of Maria Lobbs had never looked so bright, the cheeks of Maria 
Lobbs had never looked so ruddy, as upon this particular occasion. No wonder 
then, that Nathaniel Pipkin was unable to take his eyes from the countenance of 
Miss Lobbs ; no wonder that Miss Lobbs, finding herself stared at by a young 
man, withdrew her head from the window out of which she had been peeping, and 
shut the casement and pulled down the blind ; no wonder that Nathaniel Pipkin, 
immediately thereafter, fell upon the young urchin who had previously offended, 
and cuffed and knocked him ^bout, to his heart’s content. All this was very 
natural, and there’s nothing at all to wonder at about it. 


A Kissing of Hands, 


“ It w matter of wonder, though, that any one of Mr. Nathaniel Pipkin’s retiring 
disposition, nervous temperament, and most particularly diminutive income, should 
from this day forth, have dared to aspire to the hand and heart of the only daughter 
of the fiery old Lobbs — of old Lobbs the great saddler, who could have bought up 
the whole village at one stroke of his pen, and never felt the outlay — old Lobbs, 
who was well known to haw heaps of money, invested in the bank at the nearest 
market town— old Lobbs, who was reported to have countless and inexhaustible 
treasures, hoarded up in the little iron safe with the big key-hole, over the chimney- 
piece in the back parlour — old Lobbs, who it was well known, on festive occasions 
garnished his board with a real silver tea-pot, cream ewer, and sugar-basin, which 
he was wont, in the pride of his heart, to boast should be his daughter’s property 
when she found a man to her mind, I repeat it, to be matter of profound astonish- 
ment and intense wonder, that Nathaniel Pipkin should have had the temerity to 
cast his eyes in this direction. But love is blind : and Nathaniel had a cast in his 
eye : and perhaps these two circumstances, taken together, prevented his seeing the 
matter in its proper light. 

“ Now, if old Lobbs had entertained the most remote or distant idea of the state 
of the affections of Nathaniel Pipkin, he would just have razed the school-room to 
the ground, or exterminated its master from the surface of the earth, or committed 
some other outrage and atrocity of an equally ferocious and violent description ; 
for he was a terrible old fellow, was Lobbs, when his pride was injured, or his 
blood was up. Swear ! Such trains of oaths would come rolling and pealing over 
the way, sometimes, when he was denouncing the idleness of the bony apprentice 
with the thin legs, that Nathaniel Pipkm would shake in his shoes with hoiror, 
and the hair of the pupils’ heads would stand on end with fright. 

“Well! Day after day, when school was over, and the pupils gone, did 
Nathaniel Pipkin sit himself down at the front window, and while he feigned to 
be reading a book, throw sidelong glances over the way in search of the bright 
eyes of Maria Lobbs ; and he hadn’t sat there many days, before the bright eyes 
appeared at an upper window, apparently deeply engaged in reading too. This 
was doJightful, and gladdening to the heart of Nathaniel Pipkin. It was some- 
thing to sit there for hours together, and look upon that pretty face when the eyes 
were cast down ; but when Maria Lobbs began to raise her eyes from her book, 
and dart their rays in the direction of Nathaniel Pipkin, his delight and admiration 
were perfectly boundless. At last, one day when he knew old Lobbs was out, 
Nathaniel Pipkin had the temerity to kiss his hand to Maria Lobbs ; and Maria 
Lobbs, instead of shutting the window, and pulling down the blind, kissed /lers 
to him, and smiled. Upon which, Nathaniel Pipkin determined, that, come what 
might, he would develop the state of his feelings, without further delay. 

“A prettier foot, a gayer heart, a more dimpled face, or a smarter form, never 
bounded so lightly over the earth they graced, as did those of Maria Lobbs, the 
old saddler’s daughter. There was a roguish twinkle in her sparkling eyes, that 
would have made its way to far less susceptible bosoms than that of Nathaniel 
Pipkin ; and there was such a joyous sound in her merry laugh, that the sternest 
misanthrope must have smiled to hear it. Even old Lobbs himself, in the very 
height of his ferocity, couldn’t resist the coaxing of his pretty dai’ghter ; and 
when she, and her cousin Kate — an arch, impudent-looking, bewitching little 
person — made a dead set upon the old man together, as, to say th*. tiuth, they 
very often did, he could have refused them nothing, even had they asked for a 
portion of the countless and inexhaustible treasures, which were hidden from the 
light, in the iron safe. 

“Nathaniel Piokin’s heartbeat high within him, when he saw this enticirg 
little couple some hundred yards before him one summer’s ev'cning, in the verv 


144 


The Pickwick Club. , 


field in which he had many a time stroll*d about till night-time, and pondered on 
the beauty of Maria L(5bbs. But though he had often thought then, how briskly 
he would walk up to Maria Lobbs and tell her of his passion if he could only 
meet her, he felt now that she was unexpectedly before him, all the blood in his 
body mounting to his face, manifestly to the great detriment of his legs, which, 
deprived of their usual portion, trembled beneath him. When they stopped to 
gather a hedge-flower, or listen to a bird, Nathaniel Pipkin stopped too, and pre- 
tended to be absorbed in meditation, as indeed he really was ; for he was thinking 
what on earth he should ever do, when they turned back, as they inevitably must 
in time, and meet him face to face. But though he was afraid to make up to 
them, he couldn’t bear to lose sight of them ; so when they walked faster, he 
walked faster, when they lingered he lingered, and when they stopped he stopped ; 
and so they might have gone on, until the darkness prevented them, if Kate had 
not looked slyly back, and encouragingly beckoned Nathaniel to advance. There 
was something in Kate’s manner that was not to be resisted, and so Nathaniel 
Pipkin complied with the invitation ; and after a great deal of blushing on his 
mrt, and immoderate laughter on that of the wicked little cousin, Nathaniel 
Pipkin went down on his knees on the dewy grass, and declared his resolution to 
remain there for ever, unless he were permitted to rise the accepted lover of Maria 
Lobbs. Upon this, the meny laughter of Maria Lobbs rang through the calm 
evening air — without seeming to disturb it, tho’agh ; it had such a pleasant sound 
— and the wicked little cousin laughed more immoderately than before, and 
Nathaniel Pipkin blushed deeper than ever. At length, Maria Lobbs being more 
strenuously urged by the love-worn little man, turned away her head, and whis- 
pered her cousin to say, or at all events Kate did say, that she felt much honoured 
by Mr. Pipkin’s addresses ; that her hand and heart were at her father’s disposal ; 
but that nobody could be insensible to Mr. Pipkin’s merits. As all this was said 
with much giavity, and as Nathaniel Pipkin walked home with Maria Lobbs, and 
struggled for a kiss at parting, he went to bed a happy man, and dreamed all 
night long, of softening old Lobbs, opening the stiong box, and marrying 
Maria. 

“The next day, Nathaniel Pipkin saw old Lobbs go out upon his old grey 
poney, and after a great many signs at the window from the wicked little cousin, 
the object and meaning of which he could by no means understand, the bony 
apprentice with the thin legs came over to say that his master wasn’t coming 
home all night, and that the ladies expected Mr. Pipkin to tea, at six o’clock 
precisely. How the lessons were got through that day, neither Nathaniel Pipkin 
nor his pupils knew any more than you do ; but they were got through somehow, 
and, after the boys had gone, Nathaniel Pipkin took till full six o’clock to''* dress 
himself to his satisfaction. Not that it took long to select the garments he should 
wear, inasmuch as he had no choice about the matter ; but the putting of them on 
to the best advantage, and the touching of them up previously, was a task of no 
inconsiderable difficulty or importance. 

“ There was a very snug little party, consisting of Maria Lobbs and her cousin 
Kate, and three or four romping, good-humoured, rosy-cheeked girls. Nathaniel 
Pipkin had ocular demonstration of the fact, that the rumours of old Lobbs’s 
treasures were not exaggerated. There were the real solid silver tea-pot, cream- 
ewer, and sugar-basin, on the table, and real silver spoons to stir the tea with, and 
real china cups to drink it out of, and plates of the same, to hold the cakes’ and 
toast in. The only eye-sore in the whole place, was another cousin of Maria 
Lobbs’s, and a brother of Kate, whom Maria Lobbs’s called ‘ Heuiy,’ and who 
seemed to keep Maria Lobbs all to himself, up in one comer of the table. It’s a 
delightful thing to see alfection in families, but it may be carried rather too far. 


Terrible old Lohls. 


pnd Nathaniel Pipkin could not help thinking that Maria Lobbs must be very 
particularly fond of her relations, if she paid as much attention to all of them as 
to this individual cousin. After tea, too, when the wicked little cousin proposed 
a game at blind man’s buff, it somehow or other happened that Nathaniel Pipkin 
was nearly always blind, and whenever he laid his hand upon the male cousin, he 
was sure to find that Maria Lobbs was not far off. And though the wicked little 
cousin and the other girls pinched him, and pulled his hair, and pushed chairs 
in his way, and all sorts of things, Maria Lobbs never seemed to come near him 
at all ; and once — once — Nathaniel Pipkin could have sworn he heard the sound 
of a kiss, followed by a faint remonstrance from Maria Lobbs, and a half-suppressed 
laugh from her female friends. All this was odd — ^veiy odd — and there is no 
saying what Nathaniel Pipkin might or might not have done, in consequence, if 
his thoughts had not been suddenly directed into a new channel. 

“The circumstances which directed his thoughts into a new channel was a loud 
knocking at the street-door, and the person who made this loud knocking at the 
street-door, was no other than old Lobbs himself, who had unexpectedly returned, 
and was hammering away, like a coffin-maker : for he wanted his supper. The 
alarming intelligence was no sooner communicated by the bony apprentice with 
the thin legs, than the girls tripped up-stairs to Maria Lobbs’s bed-room, and the 
male cousin and Nathaniel Pipkin were thnist into a couple of closets in the 
sitting-room, for want of any better places of concealment ; and when Maria 
Lobbs and the wicked little cousin had stowed them away, and put the room to 
rights, they opened the street door to old Lobbs, who had never left off knocking 
since he first began. 

“ Now it did unfortunately happen that old Lobbs being very hungry was mon- 
strous cross. Nathaniel Pipkin could hear him growling away like an old mastiff 
with a sore throat ; and whenever the unfortunate apprentice with the thin legs 
came into the room, so surely did old Lobbs commence swearing at him in a most 
Saracenic and ferocious manner, though apparently with no other end or object 
than that of easing his bosom by the discharge of a few superfluous oaths. At 
length some supper, which had been warming up, was placed on the table, and 
tlien old Lobbs fell to, in regular style ; and having made clear work of it in no 
time, kissed his daughter, and demanded his pipe. 

“Nature had placed Nathaniel Pipkin’s knees in very close juxtaposition, but 
when he heard old Lobbs demand his pipe, they knocked together, as if they were 
going to reduce each other to powder ; for, depending from a couple of hooks, in 
the very closet in which he stood, was a large brown-stemmed, silver-bowled pipe, 
which pipe he himself had seen in the mouth of old Lobbs, reg’ilarly every after- 
noon and evening, for the last five years. The two girls went down-stairs for the 
pipe, and up-stairs for the pipe, and everywhere but where they knew the pipe was, 
and old Lobbs stormed away meanwhile, in the most wonderful manner. At last 
he thought of the closet, and walked up to it. It was of no use a little man like 
Nathaniel Pipkin pulling the door inwards, when a great strong fellow like old 
Lobbs was pulling it outwards. Old Lobbs gave it one tug, and open it flew, 
disclosing Nathaniel Pipkin standing bolt upright inside, and shaking with appre- 
hension from head to foot. Bless us ! what an appalling look old Lobbs gave him, 
as he dragged him out by the collar, and held him at arm’s length. 

“ ‘ Why, what the devil do you want here said old Lobbs, in a fearful voice. 

“Nathaniel Pipkin could make no reply, so old Lobbs shook him backwards 
and forwards, for two or three minutes, by way of arranging his ideas tor him. 

“ ‘ Wliat do you want here roared Lobbs, ‘ I suppose have come after my 
daughter, now } ’ 

“ Old Lobbs merely said this as a sneer : for he did not believe that mortal pre- 

X. 


1^6 


The Pickwick Clul. 


sumptkm could have carried Nathaniel Pipkin so far. What was his indigcatioiii 
when that poor man replied ; 

“ ‘ Yes, I did, Mr. Lobbs. I did come after your daughter. I love her^ Mr. 
Lobbs.’ . . ^ ^ 

“ ‘ Why, you snivelling, wry-faced, puny villain,’ gasped old Lobbs, paralysed 
by the atrocious confession ; what do you mean by that ? Say this to my face i 
Damme, I’ll throttle you ! ’ 

“ It is by no means improbable that old Lobbs would have carried this threat 
into execution, in the excess of his rage, if his arm had not been stayed by a very 
unexpected apparition, to wit, the male cousin, who, stepping out of his closet, and 
walldng up to old Lobbs, said ; 

“ ‘ I cannot allow this harmless person, sir, who has been asked hpe, in some 
girlish frolic, to take upon himself, in a very noble manner, the fault (if fault it is) 
whiph I am guilty of, and am ready to avow. J love your daughter, sir ; and 1 
am here for the purpose of meeting her.’ 

“ Old Lobbs ©pened his eyes very wide at this, but not wider than Nathaniel 
Pipkin. 

“ ‘ You did ?’ said Lobbs : at last finding breath to speak. 

“ ‘ I did.’ 

“ ‘ And I forbade you this house, long ago.’ 

“ ‘ You did, or I should not have been here, clandestinely, to-night.* 

“ I am sorry to record it, of old Lobbs, but I think he would have struck the 
cousin, if his pretty daughter, with her bright eyes swimming in tears, had not 
clung to his arm. 

“ ‘ Don’t stop him, Maria,’ said the young man ; ‘ if he has the will to strike 
me, let him. I would not hurt a hair of his grey head, for tlie riches of the 
world.’ 

“ The old man cast down his eyes at this reproof, and they met those of his 
daughter. I have hinted once or twice before, that they were very bright eyes, 
and, though they were tearful now, tlieir influence was by no means lessened. Old 
Lobbs turned his head away, as if to avoided being persuaded by them, when, as 
fortune would have it, he encountered the face of the wicked little cousin, who, 
half afraid for her brother, and half laughing at Nathaniel Pipkin, presented as 
bewitching an expression of cduntenance, with a touch of sh5^uiess in it too, as any 
man, old or young, need look upon. She drew her arm coaxingly through the old 
man’s, and whispered something in his ear ; and do what he would, old Lobbs 
couldn’t help breaking out into a smile, whOe a tear stole down his cheek at the 
same time. 

“Five minutes after this, the girls were brought down from the bed-room with a 
great deal of giggling and modesty ; and while the young people were making 
themselves perfectly happy, old Lobbs got down the pipe, and smoked it ; and it 
was a remarkable circumstance about that particular pipe of tobacco, that it was 
the most soothing and delightful one he evei smoked. 

“ Nathaniel Pipkin thought it best to keep his own counsel, and by so doing 
gradually rose into high favour with old Lobbs, who taught him to smoke in time; 
and they used to sit out in the garden on the fine evenings, for many years after- 
wards, smoking and drinking in great state. He soon recovered the effects of his 
attachment, for we find his name in the parish register, as a witness to the 
marriage of Maria Lobbs to her cousin ; and it also appears, by reference to other 
documents, that on the night of the wedding he was incarcerated in the village 
cage, for having, in a state of extreme intoxication, eommitted sundry excesses in 
the streets, in all of which he was aided and abetted by the bony apprentice with 
the thin legs.” 


Mr. Wmhle occasions Domestic Unhappiness. 147 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

BRIEFLY ILLUSTRATIVE OP TWO POINTS ; — FIRST, THE POWER OF HYSTERICS, 
AND, SECONDLY, THE FORCE OF CIRCUMSTANCES. 

For two days after the breakfast at Mrs. Hunter’s the Pickwickians remained at 
Eatanswill, anxiously awaiting the arrival of some intelligence from their revered 
leader. Mr. Tupman and Mi. Snodgrass were once again left to their own means 
of amusement ; for Mr. Winkle, in compliance with a most pressing invitation, 
continued to reside at Mr. Pott’s house, and to devote his time to the companion- 
ship of his amiable lady. Nor was the occasional society of Mr. Pott himself, 
wanting to complete their felicity. Deeply immersed in the intensity of his specu- 
latioi>s for the public weal and the destruction of the Independent, it was not the 
habit of that great man to descend from his mental pinnacle to the humble level of 
ordinaiy minds. On this occasion, however, and as if expressly in compliment to 
any follower of Mr. Pickwick’s, he unbent, relaxed, stepped down from his 
pedestal, and walked upon the ground : benignly adapting his remarks to the 
comprehension of the held, and seeming in outward form, if not in spirit, to be 
one of them. 

Such having been the demeanour of this celebrated public character towards 
Mr. Winkle, it will be readily imagined that considerable surprise was depicted on 
the countenance of the latter gentleman, when, as he was sitting alone in the 
breakfast-room, the door was hastily thrown open, and as hastily closed, on the 
entrance of Mr. Pott, \Yho, stalking majestically towards him, and thrusting aside 
his proffered hand, gro'ind his teeth, as if to put a sharper edge on what he was 
about to utter, and exclaimed, in a saw-like voice, — 

“ Serpent !” 

“ Sir !” exclaimed Mr. Winkle, starting from his chair. 

“ Serpent, sir,” repeated Mr. Pott, raising his voice, and then suddenly depress- 
ing it ; “I said. Serpent, sir — make the most of it.” 

When you have parted with a man, at two o’clock in the morning, on terms of 
the utmost good fellowship, and he meets you again, at half-past nine, and greets 
you as a serpent, it is not unreasonable to conclude that something of an unpleasant 
nature has occurred meanwhile. So Mr. Winkle thought. He returned Mr. 
Pott’s gaze of stone, and in compliance with that gentleman’s request, proceeded 
to make the most he could of the “ serpent.” The most, however, was nothing at 
all ; so, after a profoimd silence of some minutes’ duration, he said, — 

“Serpent, sir I Serpent, Mr. Pott! What can you mean, sir? — this is 
pleasantry.” 

“ Pleasantry, sir I” exclaimed Pott, with a motion of the hand, indicative of a 
strong desire to hurl the Britannia metal tea-pot at the head of his visitor. 

“ Pleasantry, sir I but no, I will be calm ; I will be calm, sir ; ” in proof oi his 

calmness, Mr. Pott flung himself into a chair, and foamed at the mouth. 

“ Mv dear sir,” interposed Mr. Winkle. 

“ Dear sir I ” replied Pott. “ How dare you address me, as dear sir, sir ? How 
dare vou look me in the face and do it, sir ?” 

“ Well, sir, if you come to that,” responded Mr. Winkle, “how dare you look 
me in the face, and call me a serpent, sir ?” 

“ Because you are one,” replied Mr. Pott. 

“ Prove it,*sir,” said Mr. Winkle, warmly. “ Prove it.” 

A malignant scowl passed over the proiound face of the editor, as he drew from 
his pocket, the Independent of that morning ; and laying his finger on a particular 
paragraph, tluew the journal across the table to Mr. Winkle. 


148 


The Pickwick Ciub. 


That gentleman took it up, and read as follows : — 

“ Our obscure and filthy contemporary, in some disgusting observations on the 
recent election for *his borough, has presumed to violate the hallowed sanctity of 
private life, and to lefer, in a manner not to be misunderstood, to the personal 
affairs of our late candidate — aye, and notwithstanding his base defeat, we will add, 
our future member. Air. Fizkin. What does our dastardly contemporary mean } 
What would the ruffian say, if we, setting at naught, like him, the decencies of 
social intercourse, w'ere to raise the curtain which happily conceals His private life 
from general ridicule, not to say from general execration } What, if we were even 
to point out, and comment on, facts and circumstances, which are publicly noto- 
rious, and beheld by every one, but our mole-eyed contemporary — what if we were 
to print the following effusion, which we received while we were writing the com- 
mencement of this article, from a talented fellow- townsman and correspondent ! 

“‘LINES TO A BRASS POT. 

% 

Oh Poft ! if you’d known 
How false she’d have grown, 

When you heard the marriage bells tinkle ; 

You’d have done then, I vow, 

W’hat you cannot help now. 

And handed her over to W ****** ”’ 

“ What,” said Air. Pott, solemnly : “ what rhymes to ‘ tinkle,’ villain ?” 

“ What rhymes to tinkle said Airs. Pott, whose entrance at the moment fore- 
stalled the reply. “ What rhymes to tinlde } Why Winkle, I should conceive : ” 
saying this, Mrs. Pott smiled sweetly on the disturbed Pickwickian, and extended 
her hand towards him. The agitated young man would have accepted it, in his 
confusion, had not Pott indignantly interposed. 

“ Back, ma’am — back ! ” said the editor. “ Take his hand before my very face ! ” 

“ Air. P. ! ” said his astonished lady. 

“Wretched woman, look here,” exclaimed the husband. “Look here, ma’am 
— ‘ Lines to a brass Pot.’ ‘ Brass pot ; ’—that ’s me, ma’am. ‘ False she'd have 
grown ; ’ — that ’s you, ma’am — you.” With this ebullition of rage, which was not 
unaccompanied with something like a tremble, at the expression of his wife’s face, 
All Pott dashed the cunent number of the Eatanswill Independent at her feet. 

Upon my word, sir,” said the astonished Airs. Pott, stooping to pick up the 

n ;r. “ Upon my word, sir ! ” 

ir. Pott winced beneath the contemptuous gaze of his wife. He had made a 
desperate struggle to screw up his courage, but it was fast coming unscrewed again. 

_ Ihere appears nothing very tremendous in this little sentence, “ Upon my word, 
sir,” when it comes to be read ; but the tone of voice in which it was delivered, and 
the look that accompanied it, both seeming to bear reference to some revenge to be 
Ihereafter visited upon the head of Pott, produced their full effect upon him. The 
most unskilful observer could have detected in his troubled countenance, a readi- 
ness to resign his Wellington boots to any efficient substitute who would have con- 
sented to stand in them at that moment. 

Airs. Pott read the paragraph, uttered a loud shriek, and threw herself at full 
length on the hearth-rug, screaming, and tapping it with the heels of her shoes, in 
a manner which could leave no doubt of the propiiety of her feelings on the 
occasion. ** 

“ Aly dear,” said the petrified Pott,— “ I didn’t say I believed it I ” but 

the unfortunate man’s voice was drowned in the screaming of his partner. 

“ Airs. Pott, let me entreat you, my dear ma’am, to compose yourself,” said 
Air. W inkle ; but tl o shrieks and tappings w’eye louder, and more frequent than ever. 


Alarming Condition of Mrs. Pott, 


“ My dear,” said Mr. Pott, “I’m very sorry. If you won’t consider your own 
health, consider me, my dear. We shall have a crowd round the house.” But 
the more strenuously Mr. Pott entreated, the more vehemently the screams poured 
forth. 

Very fortunately, however, attached to Mrs. Pott’s person was a body-guard of 
one, a young lady whose ostensible employment was to preside over her toilet, but 
who rendered herself useful in a variety of ways, and in none more so than in the 
particular department of constantly aiding and abetting her mistress in every wish 
and inclination opposed to the desires of the unhappy Pott. The screams reached 
this young lady’s ears in due course, and brought her into the room with a speed 
which threatened to derange, materially, the very exquisite arrangement of her cap 
and ringlets. 

“ Oh, my dear, dear mistress !” exclaimed the body-guard, kneeling frantically 
by the side of the prostrate Mrs. Pott. “ Oh, my dear mistress, what is the 
matter 

“ Your master — ^your brutal master,” murmured the patient. 

Pott was evidently giving way. 

“It’s a shame,” said the body-guard, reproachfully. “I know he’ll be the 
death of you, ma’am. Poor dear thing ! ” 

He gave way more. The opposite party followed up the attack. 

“ Oh don’t leave me — don’t leave me, Goodwin,” murmured Mrs. Pott, clutch- 
ing at the wrist of the said Goodwin with an hysteric jerk. “ You ’re the only 
person that’s kind to me, Goodwin.” 

At this affecting appeal, Goodwin got up a little domestic tragedy of her own, 
and shed tears copiously. 

“ Never, ma’am — never,” said Goodwin. “ Oh, sir, you should be careful — 
you should indeed ; you don’t know what harm you may do missis ; you’ll be sorry 
for it one day, I know — I’ve always said so.” 

The unlucky Pott looked timidly on, but said nothing. 

“ Goodwin,” said Mrs. Pott, in a soft voice. 

“ Ma’am,” said Goodwin. 

“ If you only knew how I have loved that man ” 

“ Don’t distress yourself by recollecting it, ma’am,” said the body-guard. 

Pott looked very frightened. It was time to finish him. 

“ And now,” sobbed Mrs. Pott, “ now, after all, to be treated in this way ; to 
be reproached and insulted in the presence of a third party, and that party almost 
a stranger. But I will not submit to it ! Goodwin,” continued Mrs. Pott, raising 
herself in the arms of her attendant, “my brother, the Lieutenant, shall interfere. 
I’ll be separated, Goodwin ! ” 

“ It would certainly serve him right, ma’am,” said Goodwin. 

Wliatever thoughts the threat of a separation might have awakened in Mr. Pott’s 
mind, he forebore to give utteranee to them, and contented himself by saying, 
vifith great humility : 

“ My dear, will you hear me ? ” 

A fresh train of sobs was the only reply, as Mrs. Pott grew more hysterical, 
requested to be informed why she was ever bom, and required sundry other pieces 
of information of a similar description. 

“ My dear,” remonstrated Mr. Pott, “ do not give way to these sensitive feelings. 
I never believed that the paragraph had any foundation, my dear— impossible. I 
was only angry, my dear — I may say outrageous — with the Independent people 
for daring to insert it; that’s all-” Mr. Pott cast an imploring look at the 
innocent cause of the mischief, as if to entreat him to say nothing abcrut the 
serpent. 


The Tichwich Club. 


^ 1 - 

“ And what steps, sir, do you mean to take to obtain redress ? ” inquired Mj. 
Winkle, <;aining courage as he saw Pott losing it. 

“ Oh, Goodwin,” observed Mrs. Pott, “does he mean to horsewhip the editoi 
of the Independent — does he, Goodwin } ” 

“ Hush, hush, ma’am ; pray keep yourself quiet,” replied the body-guard. “ I 
dare say he will, if you wish it, ma’am.” 

“ Certainly,” said Pott, as his wife evinced decided symptoms of going oil 
again. “ Of course I shall.” 

“ When, Goodwin — when ? ” said Mrs. Pott, still undecided about the going off. 

“ Immediately, of course,” said Mr. Pott ; “ before the day is out.” 

“ Oh, Goodwin,” resumed Mrs. Pott, “ it’s the only way of meeting the slander, 
and setting me right with the world.” 

“ Certainly, ma’am,” replied Goodwin. “No man as is a man, ma’am, could 
refuse to do it.” 

So, as the hysterics were still hovering about, Mr. Pott said once moie that he 
M^ould do it ; but Mrs. Pott was so overcome at the bare idea of having ever been 
suspected, that she was half-a-dozen times on the very verge of a relapse, and most 
unquestionably would have gone off, had it not been for the indefatigable efforts 
of the assiduous Goodwin, and repeated entreaties for pardon from the conquered 
Pott ; and finally, when that unhappy individual had been frightened and snubbed 
down to his proper level, Mrs. Pott recovered, and they went to breakfast. 

“You will not allow this base newspaper slander to shorten your stay here, Mr. 
Winkle ? ” said Mrs. Pott, smiling through the traces of her tears. 

“ I hope not,” said Mr. Pott, actuated, as he spoke, by a wish that his visitor 
would choke himself with the morsel of dry toast which he was raising to his lips 
at the moment : and so terminate his stay effectually. 

“ I hope not.” 

“ You are very good,” said Mr. Winkle ; “but a letter has been received from 
Mr. Pickwick — so I learn by a note from Mr. Tupman, which was brought up to 
my bed-room door, this morning — in which he requests us to join him at Bury to- 
day ; and we are to leave by the coach at noon.” 

“ But you will come back ? ” said Mrs. Pott. 

“ Oh, certainly,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“ You are quite sure ? ” said Mrs. Pott, stealing a tender look at her visitor. 

“ Quite,” responded Mr. Winkle. 

The breakfast passed off in silence, for each member of the party was brooding 
over his, or her, own personal giievances. Mrs. Pott was regietting the loss of a 
beau ; Mr. Pott his rash pledge to horsewhip the Independent ; Mr. Winkle his 
having innocently placed himself in so awkward a situation. Noon approached, 
and after many adieux and promises to return, he tore himself away. 

“ If he ever comes back. I’ll poison him,” thought Mr. Pott, as he turned into 
the little back office where he prepared his thunderbolts. 

“ If I ever do come back, and mix myself up with these people again,” thought 
Mr. Winkle, as he wended his way to the Peacock, “ I shall deserve to be horse- 
wliipped myself — that’s all.” 

Ilis friends were ready, the coach was nearly so, and in half-an-hour they were 
proceeding on their journey, ak ng the road over which Mr. Pickwick and Sam 
had so recently travelled, and of which, as we have already said something, we do 
not feel called upon to extract Mr. Snodgrass’s poetical and beautiful description. 

Mr. Weller was standing at the door of the Angel, ready to receive them, and 
by that gentleman they were ushered to the apartment of Mr. Pickwick, where, to 
the no small surprise of Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass, and the no small embark 
tassment of Mr. Tupman, they found old Wardle and Trundle. 


The Pickwickians considered as a Social Blight, 15 1 

** How an; you ? ” said the old man, grasping Mr. Tupman’s hand. Don’t 
hang back, or look sentimental about it ; it can’t be helped, old fellow. For her 
sake, I wish you’d had her ; for your own, I’m very glad you have not. A young 
fellow like you will do better one of these days — eh ? ” With this coasolation, 
Wardle slapped Mr. Tupman on the back, and laughed heartily. 

“Well, and how are you, my fine fellows?” said the old gentleman, shaking 
hands with Mr. Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass at the same time. “ I have just been 
telling Pickwick that we must have you all down at Christmas. We’re going to 
have a wedding^a real wedding this time.” 

“ A wedding ! ” exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass, turning very pale. 

“ Yes, a wedding. But don’t be frighUned,” said the good-humoured old man ; 
“it’s only Trundle there, and Bella.” 

“ Oh, is that all ! ” said Mr. Snodgrass, relieved from a painful doubt which 
had fallen heavily on his breast. “ Give you joy, sir. How is Joe ? ” 

“ Very well,” replied the old gentleman. “ Sleepy as ever.” 

“ And your motlier, and the clergj'man, and all of ’em ? ” 

“ Quite well.” 

“ Where,” said Mr. Tupman, with an effort — “ where is — sAe, sir ? ” and he 
turned away his head, and covered his eyes with his hand. 

“ SAe ! ” said the old gentleman, with a knowing shake of the head. “ Do you 
mean my single relative — eh ?” 

Mr. Tupman, by a nod, intimated that his question applied to the disappointed 
Rachael. 

“ Oh, she’s gone away,” said the old gentleman. “ She’s living at a relation’s, 
far enough off. She couldn’t bear to see the girls, so I let her go. But come ! 
Heie’s the dinner. You must be hungry after your ride, /am, without any ride 
at all ; so let us fall to.” 

Ample justice was done to the meal ; and when they were seated round the 
table, after it had been disposed of, Mr. Pickwick, to the intense horror and indig- 
nation of his followei-s, related the adventure he had undergone, and the success 
which had attended the base artifices of the diabolical Jingle. 

“ And the attack of rheumatism which I caught in that garden,” said Mr. 
Pickwick, in conclusion, “renders me lame at this moment.” 

“ I, too, have had something of an adventure,” said Mr. Winkle, with a 
smile ; and at the request of Mr. Pickwick he detailed the malicious libel of the 
EatanswiU Independent, and the consequent excitement of their friend, the 
editor. 

Mr. Pickwick’s brow darkened during the recital. His friends observed it, and, 
when Mr. Winkle had concluded, maintained a profound silence. Mr. Pickwick 
struck the table emphatically with his clenched fist, and spoke as follows : 

“ Is it not a wonderful circumstance,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ that we seem 
destined to enter no man’s house without involving him in some degree of trouble? 
Does it not, I ask, bespeak the indiscretion, or, worse than that, the blackness of 
heart — that I should say so ! — of my followers, that, beneath whatever roof they 
locate, they disturb the peace of mind and happiness of some confiding female ? 
Is it not, I say ” 

Mr Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had not the 
entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his eloquent discourse. 
He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped 
them, and put them on again ; and his voice had recovered its wonted softness of 
tone when he said : 

“ What have you there, Sam ? ” 

“ Called at the Post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid there 


The Pickwick Club, 


for two days,” replied Mr. Weller. “ It’s sealed with a vafer, and directed in 
round hand.” 

“ I don’t know this hand,” said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. “ Mercy on 
us ! what’s this ? It must be a jest ; it— it— can’t be true.” 

“ What’s the matter ? ” was the general inquiry. 

“ Nobody dead, is there ? ” said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr. Pick- 
wick’s countenance. 

Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and 
desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant 
astonishment quite alarming to behold. 

Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following is 
a copy ; — 

Freeman’s Court, Comhill, August zSth, 1830. 

Bardell against Pickwick. 

Sir, '• 

Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action 
against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff lays her 
damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been 
issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas ; and request to 
know, by return of post, the name of your attorney in London, who will accept 
service thereof. 

We are. Sir, 

Your obedient servants, 

Dodson and Fogg. 

Mr, Samuel Pickwick, 

There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each 
man regarded his neighbour, and eveiy man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that aU 
seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman. 

“ Dodson and Fogg,” he repeated mechanically. 

“ BardeU and Pickwick,” said Mr. Snodgrass, musing. 

“ Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,” murmured Mr. Winlde, 
with an air of abstraction. 

“It’s a conspiracy,” said ]Mi. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of 
speech; “abase conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and 
Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it; — she hasn’t the heart to do it; — she 
hasn’t the case to do it. Ridiculous — ridiculous.” 

“ Of her heart,” said Wardle, with a smile, “ you should certainly be the best 
judge. I don’t wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her 
case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.” 

“ It’s a vile attempt to extort money,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

•* I hope it is,” said Wardle, with a short, dry cough. 

“ Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would 
address his landlady .? ” continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. “ Who 
ever saw me with her } Not even my friends here ” 

“ Except on one occasion,” said Mr. Tupman. 

Mr. Pickwick changed colour. 

“ Ah,” said Mr. Wardle. “ Well, that’s important. There was nothing sus- 
picious then, I suppose t ” 

Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. “ Why,” said he, “ there was 
nothing suspicious ; but — 1 don’t know how it happened, mind — she certainly was 
rechning in his arms.” 

** Gracious powers ! ” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene 


Appearances are against the Defendant, 153 

in question struck forcibly upon him ; “ what a dreadful instance of the force of 
circumstances ! So she was — so she was.” 

“ And our friend was soothing her anguish,” said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously. 

So I was,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ I won’t deny it. So I was.” 

“ Hallo ! ” said Wardle ; “ for a case in which there’s nothing suspicious, this 
Jooks rather queer — eh, Pickwick ? Ah, sly dog — sly dog ! ” and he laughed till 
the glasses on the side-board rang again. 

“ What a dreadful conjunction of appearances ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, 
testing his chin upon his hands. “Winkle — Tupman — I beg your pardon for the 
observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the 
greatest.” With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and 
ruminated ; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks, 
addressed to the other members of the company. 

“ I’ll have it explained, though,” said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and 
hammering the table. “ I’ll see this Dodson and Fogg ! I’ll go to London to- 
morrow.” 

“ Not to-morrow,” said Wardle ; “ you’re too lame.” 

“ Well, then, next day.” 

“ Next day is the first of September, and you’re pledged to ride out with us, as 
far as Sir Geoffrey Manning’s grounds, at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if 
you don’t take the field.” 

“ Well, then, the day after,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ Thursday. — Sam ! ” 

“ Sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself 
and me.” 

“ Wery well, sir.” 

Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in 
his pocket, and his eyes fixed on the ground. 

“ Rum feller, the hemperor,” said Mr. Weller, as he walked slowly up the 
street. “ Think o’ his making up to that ere Mrs. Bardell — vith a little boy, too ! 
Always the vay vith these here old ’uns hows’ever, as is such steady goers to look 
at. I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it, though — I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it ! ” 
Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking- 
office. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

A PLEASANT DAY, WITH AN UNPLEASANT TERMINATION. 

The birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind and personal comfort, were 
m blissful ignorance of the preparations which had been making to astonish them, 
on the first of September, hailed it no doubt, as one of the pleasantest mornings 
they had seen that season. Many a young partridge who strutted complacently 
among the stubble, with all the finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older 
one who watched his levity out of his little round eye, with the contemptuous air 
of a bird of wisdom and experience, alike unconscious of their approaching doom, 
basked in the fresh morning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few 
hours afterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting ; let us 
proceed. 

In plain common-place matter-of-fact, then, it was a fine morning— so fine that 
you would scarcely have believed that the few months of an English summer had 


^54 


The Pickwick Club. 


yet flown by. Hedges, fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the ev^ 
their ever-varying shades of deep rich green ; scarce a leaf had fallen, scarce a 
spi inkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer, warned you that autumn had 
begun. The sky was cloudless ; the sun shone out bright and warm ; the s^onga 
of birds, and hum of myriads of summer insects, filled the air ; and the cottage 
gardens, crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled, in the 
heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore the stamp of summei, 
and none of its beautiful colours had yet faded from the die. 

Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which were three Pick- 
wickians, (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain at home,) Mr. Wardle, and 
Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the box beside the driver, pulled up by a gate 
at the road-side, before which stood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper, and a half- 
booted, leather-leggined boy : each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, and 
accompanied by a brace of pointers. 

“ I say,” whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let down the steps, 
“ they don’t suppose we’re going to kill game enough to fill those bags, do they.^” 

“Fill them!” exclaimed old Wardle. “Bless yon, yes I You shall fill one, 
and I the other ; and when we’ve done with them, the pockets of our shooting- 
jackets will hold as much more.” 

Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to this observ'ation ; 
but he thought within himself, that if the party remained in the open air, until he 
had filled one of the bags, they stood a considerable chance of catching colds in 
their heads. 

“ Hi, Juno, lass — hi, old girl ; down, Daph, down,” said Wardle, caressing the 
dogs. “ Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course, Martin 

The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked with some surprise 
from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if he wished his coat pocket to 
save him the trouble of pulling the trigger, to Mr. Tupman, who was holding his 
as if he were afraid of it — as there is no earthly reason to doubt he really was. 

“ My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet, Martin,” said 
Wardle, noticing the look. “ Live and learn, you know. They’ll be good shots 
one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle’s pardon, though ; he has had some 
practice.” 

Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief in acknowledgment of the 
compliment, and got himself so mysteriously entangled with his gun, in his modest 
confusion, that if the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have shot himself 
dead upon the spot. 

“You mustn’t handle your piece in th.at ere way, when you come to have the 
charge in it, sir,” said the tall gamekeeper, giuffly, “or I’m damned if you won’t 
make cold meat of some on us.” 

Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered its position, and in so doing, 
contrived to bring the barrel into pretty sharp contact with Mr. Weller’s head. ** 

“Hallo!” said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knocked off, and 
rubbing his temple. “ Hallo, sir ! if you comes it this vay, you’ll fill one o’ them 
bags, and something to spase, at one fire.” 

Here the leather-leggined boy laughed very heartily, and then tried to look as if 
it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winkle frowned majestically. 

“Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?” inquired 
Wardle. 

“ Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o’clock, sir.” 

“ That’s not Sir Geoffrey’s land, is it ?” 

“No, sir; but it’s close by it. It’s Captain Boldwig’s land; but there’ll be 
nobody to intem\pt us, and there’s a fine bit of turf there.” 


Mr. Pickwick in a JFlieellarrow, 155 

“ Very well,” said old Wardle “ Now the sooner we’re off the better. Will 
you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick ?” 

Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, the more especially as 
he was rather anxious in respect of Mr. Winkle’s life and limbs. On so inviting 
a morning, too, it was very tantalising to turn back, and leave his friends to enjoy 
themselves. It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he replied, 

“ Why, I suppose I must.” 

“ An’t the gentleman a shot, sir i”’ inquired the long gamekeeper. 

*‘No,” replied Wardle ; “ and he’s lame besides.” 

“ I should very much like to go,” said Mr. Pickwick, “very much.” 

There was a short pause of commiseration. 

“ There’s a barrow t’other side the hedge,” said the boy. “ If the gentleman’s 
servant would wheel along the paths, he could keep nigh us, and we could lift it 
over the stiles, and that.” 

“ The wery thing,” said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested, inasmuch as 
he ardently longed to see the sport. “ The wery thing. Well said, Smallcheck ; 
I’ll have it out in a minute.” 

But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutely protested against 
the introduction into a shooting party, of a gentleman in a barrow, as a gross 
violation of all established rules and precedents. 

It was a great objection, but not an insurmountable one. The gamekeeper 
having been coaxed and feed, and having, moreover, eased his mind % “ punch- 
ing” the head of the inventive youth who had first suggested the use of the 
machine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party set ; Wardle and the 
long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr. Pickwick in the barrow, propelled by 
Sam, bringing up the rear. 

“ Stop, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick when they had got half across the first field. 

“ What’s the matter now } ” said Wardle. 

“ I won’t suffer this barrow to be moved another step,” said Mr. Pickwick, 
resolutely, “ unless Winkle carries that gun of his, in a different manner.” 

“ How am I to carry it } ” said the wretched Winkle. 

“ Carry it with the muzzle to the ground,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ It’s so unsportsman-like,” reasoned Winkle. 

“ I don’t care whether it’s unsportsman-like or not,” replied Mr. Pickwick ; “I 
am not going to be shot in a wheelbarrow, for the sake of appearances, to please 
anybody.” 

“ I know the gentleman ’U put that ere charge into somebody afore he’s done,” 
growled the long man. 

“Well, well — I don’t mind,” said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock upper- 
most ; — “there.” 

“ Anythin’ for a quiet life,” said Mr. Weller; and on they went again. 

“ Stop ! ” said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yards further. 

“ What now } ” said Wardle. 

“ That gun of Tupman’s is not safe : I know it isn’t,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Eh ? What ! not safe } ” said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of great alarm. 

“ Not as you art cariynng it,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ I am very sony to make 
any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on, unless you carry it as Winkle 
does his.” 

“I think you had better, sir,” said the long gamekeeper, “or you’re quite as 
likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anything else.” 

Mr. Tupman, with ihe most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position 
required, and the party moved on again ; the two amateurs marching with reversed 
arms, like a couj le of piivates at a royal funeral. 


The Pichwick Club. 


The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the party advancing stealthily a 
single pace, stopped too. 

“What’s the matter with the dogs’ legs ” whispered Mr. Winlde. “How 
queer they’re standing.” 

“ Hush, can’t you ? ” replied Wardle, softly. “ Don’t you see, they’re making 
a point ? ” 

“ Making a point ! ” said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if he expected to 
discover some particular beauty in the landscape, which the sagacious animals 
were calling special attention to. “ Making a point ! What are they pointing at?” 

“Keep your e5'^es open,” said Wardle, not heeding the question in the excite- 
ment of the moment. “Now then.” 

There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle start back as if he 
had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple of guns; — the smoke swept 
quickly away over the field, and curled into the air. 

“Where are they?” said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highest excitement, 
turning round and round in all directions. “ Where are they ? Tell me when to 
fire. Wliere are they — where are they ? ” 

“Where are they?” said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds which the dogs 
had deposited at his feet. “ Why, here they are.” 

“No, no ; I mean the others,” said the bewildered Winkle. 

“ Far enough off, by this time,” replied Wardle, coolly reloading his gun. 

“ We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,” said the long 
gamekeeper. “ If the gentleman begins to fire now, perhaps he’ll just get the 
shot out of the barrel by the time they rise.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” roared Mr. Weller. 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower’s confusion and em- 
barrassment. 

“ Sir.” 

“ Don’t laugh.” 

“ Certainly not, sir.” So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Weller contorted his 
features from behind the wheelbarrow, for the exclusive amusement of the bo) 
with the leggings, who thereupon burst into a boisterous laugh, and was sum- 
marily cuffed by the long gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to 
hide his own merriment. 

“ Bravo, old fellow ! ” said Wardle to Mr. Tupman ; “you fired that time, al 
all events.” 

“ Oh yes,” replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. “ I let it off.” 

“Well done. You’ll hit something next time, if you look sharp. Very easy, 
ain’t it ? ” 

“Yes, it’s very easy,” said Mr. Tupman. “How it hurts one’s shoulder, 
though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no idea these small fire-arm* 
kicked so.” 

“Ah,” said the old gentleman, smiling ; “you’ll get used to it in time. Nov 
then — all ready — all right with the barrow there ? ” 

“All right, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ Come along then.” 

“ Hold hard, sir,” said Sam, raising the barrow. 

“ Aye, aye,” replied Mr. Pickwick ; and on they went, as briskly as need be. 

“Keep that barrow back now,” cried Wardle Avhen it had been hoisted ovei 
A stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had been deposited in it once more. 

“ All right, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, pausing. 

“Now, Winkle,” said the old gentleman, “ follow me softly, and don’t be too 
late this time,” 


Mr, Winkle disarmed. 


'57 


“ Never fear,’' said Mr. Winkle. “ Are they pointing ? ” 

“ No, no ; not now. Quietly now, quietly.” On they crept, and very quietly 
they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in the performance of some very intri- 
cate evolutions with his gun, had not accidentally fired, at the most critical 
moment, over the boy’s head, exactly in the veiy spot where the tall man’s brain 
would have been, had he been there instead. 

“ Why, what on earth did you do that for ? ” said old Wardle, as the birds flew 
unharmed away. 

“ I never saw such a gur\ in my life,” replied poor Mr. Winkle, looking at 
the lock, as if that would do any good. “ It goes off of its own accord. It will 
do it.” 

“ Will do it ! ” echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in his manner. 

I wish it would kill something of its own accord.” 

“ It’ll do that afore long, sir,” observed the tall man, in a low, prophetic voice. 

“ What do you mean by that observation, sir ? ” inquired Mr. Winkle, angrily. 

“ Never mind, sir, never mind,” replied the long gamekeeper ; “ I’ve no family 
myself, sir ; and this here boy’s mother will get something handsome from Sir 
Geoffrey, if he’s killed on his land. Load, again, sir, load again.” 

“ Take away his gun,” cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow, horror-stricken at 
the long man’s dark insinuations. “ Take away his gun, do you hear, some- 
body ” 

Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command ; and Mr. Winkle, after 
darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloaded his gun, and proceeded 
onwards with the rest. 

We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwck, to state, that Mr. Tupman’s 
mode of proceeding evinced far fiiore of prudence and deliberation, than that 
adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, Uiis by no means detracts from the great autho- 
rity of the latter gentleman, on all matters connected with the field ; because, as 
Mr. Pickwick beautifully observes, it has somehow or other happened, from time 
immemorial, that many of the best and ablest philosophers, who have been per- 
fect lights of science in matters of theory, have been wholly unable to reduce them 
to practice. 

Mr. Tupman’s process, like many of our most sublime discoveries, was extremely 
simple. With the quickness and penetration of a man of genius, he had at once 
observed that the two great points to be attained were — first, to discharge his 
piece without injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so, without danger to the 
by-standers ; — obviously, the best thing to do, after surmounting the difficulty of 
firing at all, was to shut his eyes firmly, and fire into the air. 

On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, on opening his eyes, 
beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling wounded to the ground. He 
was on the point of congratulating Mr. Wardle on his invariable success, when 
that gentleman advanced towards him, and grasped him warmly by the hand. 

“ Tupman,” said the old gentleman, “ you singled out that particular bird ? ” 

“ No,” said Mr. Tupman — “ no.” 

“ You did,” said Wardle. “ I saw you do it — I observed you pick him out — I 
noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim ; and I will say this, that the 
best shot in existence could not have done it more beautifully. You are an older 
hand at this, than I thought you, Tupman ; you have been out before.” 

It was in vain for Mr. Tupman to protest, with a smile of sell-denial, that he 
never had. The very smile was taken as evidence to the contrary ; and from that 
time forth, his re| utation was established. It is not the only reputation that has 
been acquired as easily, noi aie such fortunate circumstances confined to partridge- 
shooting. 


The Pickwick Clh.h» 


Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away, without \ * 
ducing; any material results worthy of being noted down ; sometimes expending 
his charge in mid-air, and at others sending it skimming along so near the surface 
of the ground as to place the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain and pre- 
carious tenure. As a display of fancy shooting, it was extremely varied and 
curious ; as an exhibition of firing with any precise object, it was, upon the whole, 
perhaps a failure. It is an established axiom, that “ every bullet has its billet.” 
If it apply in an equal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunate 
foundlings, deprived of their natural riglits, cast loose upon the world, and billeted 
nowhere. 

“ Well,” said Wardle, walking up to the side of the barrow, and wiping the 
streams of perspiration from his jolly red face ; “ smoking day, isn’t it } ” 

“ It is, indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ The sun is tremendously hot, even to 
me. I don’t know how you must feel it.” 

“ Why,” said the old gentleman, “ pretty hot. It’s past twelve, though. You 
see that green hill there ? ” 

“Certainly.” 

“ That’s the place where we are to lunch ; and, by Jove, there’s the boy with 
the basket, punctual as clockwork ! ” 

“ So he is,” said Mr. Pickwick, brightening up. “ Good boy, that. I’U give 
him a shilling, presently. Now, then, Sam, wheel away.” 

“ Hold on, sir,” said hlr. Weller, invigorated with the prospect of refreshments. 
“ Out of the vay, young leathers. If you walley my precious life don’t upset me, 
as the gen’l’m’n said to the driver when they was a carryin’ him to Tyburn.” And 
quickening his pace to a sharp run, Mr. Weller wheeled his master nimbly to the 
green hill, shot him dexterously out by the vei^y side of the basket, and proceeded 
to unpack it with the utmost dispatch. 

“ Weal pie,” said Mr. Weller, soliloquising, as he arranged the eatables on the 
grass. “ Wery good thing is weal pie, when you know the lady as made it, and 
is quite sure it an’t kittens ; and arter all though, where’s the odds, when they’re 
so like weal that the wery piemen themselves don’t know the diflerence ? ” 

“ Don’t they, Sam } ” said Mr. Piolcwick. 

“ Not they, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, touching his hat. “ I lodged in the sarne 
house vith a pieman once, sir, and a wery nice man he was — reg’lar clever chap, 
too — make pies out o’ anything, he could. ‘ What a number o’ cats you keep, 
Mr. Brooks,’ says I, when I’d got intimate v/ith him. ‘Ah,’ says he, ‘I do — a 
good many,’ says he. ‘ You must be weiy fond o’ cats,’ says I. ‘ Other people 
is,’ says he, a winkin’ at me ; ‘ they an’t in season till the winter though,’ says he. 
‘ Not in season ! ’ says I. ‘ No,’ says he, ‘ fruits is in, cats is out.’ ‘ Why, what 
do you mean } ’ says I. ‘ Mean ? ’ says he. ‘ That I’ll never be a party to the 
combination ©’ the butchers, to keep up the prices o’ meat,’ says he. ‘ Mr. Weller,’ 
says he, a squeezing my hand wery hard, and vispering in my'ear — ‘ don’t mention 
this here agin— but it’s the seasonin’ as does it. They’re all made o’ them noble ani- 
mals,’ says he, a pointin’ to a weiy nice little tabby kitten, ‘ and I seasons ’em for 
beefsteak, weal, or kidney, ’cordin to the demand. And more than that,’ says he, ‘ I 
can make a weal a beef-steak, or a beef-steak a kidney, or any one on ’em a mut- 
ton, at a minute’s notice, just as the market changes, and appetites wan ! ’ ” 

“ He must have been a very ingenious young man, that, Sam,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick, with a slight shudder. 

“ Just was, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, continuing his occupation of emptying the 
basket,^ “ and the pies was beautiful. Tongue ; well that’s a weiy good thing 
when it an’t a woman’s. Bread — knuckle o’ ham, reg’lar picter — cold beet in 
slices, wery good. What’s in them stone jars, young touch-and-go ? ” 


Cold Punch. 


“ Beer in this one,” replied the boy, taking from his shoulder a couple of large 
stone bottles, fastened together by a leathern strap — “ cold punch ki t’other.” 

“ And a wery good notion of a lunch it is, take it akogether,” said Mr. Weller, 
surveying his arrangement of the repast with great satisfax'tion. “ Now, gen’l’m’n^ 

‘ fall on,’ as the English said to the French when they fixed bagginets.” 

It needed no second invitation to induce the party to yield full justice to the 
meal ; and as little pressing did it require to induce Mr. Weller, the long game- 
keeper, and the two boys, to station themselves on the grass, at a little distance, 
and do good execution upon a decent proportion of the viands. An old oak 
afforded a pleasant shelter to the group, and a rich prospect of arable and meadow 
land, intersected with luxuriant hedges, and richly ornamented with wood, lay 
spread out below them. 

“This is delightful — thoroughly delightfrrl ! ” said Mr. Pickwick, the skin 
of whose expressive countenance was rapidly peeling off, with exposure to the 
sun. 

“ So it is : so it is, old fellow,” replied Wardle. “ Come ; a glass of punch ! ” 

“With great pleasure,” said !Mr. Pickwick; the satisfaction of whose counte- 
nance, after drinking it, bore testimony to the sincerity of the reply. 

“ Good,” said Mr. Pickwick, smacking his lips. “ Very good. I’ll take an- 
other. Cool ; very cooL Come, gentlemen,” continued Mr. Pickwick, stiff 
retaining his hold upon the jar, “ a toast. Our friends at Dingley Dell.” 

The toast was drunk with loud acclamations. 

“ I’ll tell you what I shall do, to get up my shooting again,” said Mr. Winkle, 
who was eating bread and ham with a pocket-knife. “I’ll put a stuffed partridge 
on the top of a post, and practise at it, beginning at a short distance, and lengthen- 
ing it by degi'ees. I understand it’s capital practice.” 

“I know a gen’l’man, sir,” said Mr. Weller, “as did that, and begun at two 
yards ; but he never tried it on agin ; for he blowed the bird right clean away at 
the first fire, and nobody ever seed a feather on him arterwards.” 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ Have the goodness to reserve your anecdotes ’tiff they are called for.” 

“ Cert’nly, sir.” 

Here Mr. Weller winked the eye which was not concealed by the beer-can he 
was raising to his lips with such exquisiteness, that the two boys went into sponta- 
neous convulsions, and even the long man condescended to smile. 

“Well that certainly is most capital cold punch,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking 
eaiTiestly at the stone bottle ; “ and the day is extiemely warm, and — Tupman, 
my dear friend, a glass of punch } ” 

“ With the greatest delight,” replied Mr. Tupman ; and having drank that 
glass, Mr. Pickwick took another, just to see whether there was any orange peel in 
the punch, because orange peel always disagreed with him ; and finding that there 
was not, Mr. Pickwick took another glass to the health of their absent friend, and 
then felt himself imperatively called upon to propose another in honour of the 
punch-compounder, unknown. 

This constant succession of glasses produced considerable effect upon Mr. Pick- 
wick ; his countenance beamed with the most sunny smiles, laughter played around 
his lips, and good-humoured meniment twinkled in his eye. Yielding by degrees 
to the influence of the exciting liquid, rendered more so by the heat, Mr. Pickwick 
expressed a strong desire to recollect a song which he had heard in his infancy, 
and the attempt proving abortive, sought to stimulate his memoiy with more 
glasses of punch, which appeared to have quite a contraiy effect ; for, from for- 
getting the words of the song, be began to forget how to articulate any words at 


The Pickwick Club. 


i6o 


all ; and finally, after rising to his legs to address the company in an eloquent 
speech, he fell into the banow, and fast asleep, simultaneously. 

The basket having been repacked, and it being found perfectly impossible to 
awaken Mr. Pickwick from his torpor, some discussion took place whether it 
would be better for Mr. Weller to wheel his master back again, or to leave him 
where he was, until they should all be ready to return. The latter course was at 
length decided on ; and as the further expedition was not to exceed an hour’s 
duration, and as Mr. Weller begged very hard to be one of the party, it was 
determined to leave Mr. Pickwick asleep in the barrow, and to call for him on 
their retinn. So away they went, leaving Mr. Pickwick snoring most comfortably 
in the shade. 

That Mr. Pickwick would have continued to snore in the shade until his friends 
came back, or, in default thereof, until the shades of evening had fallen on the 
landscape, there appears no reasonable cause to doubt ; always supposing that he 
had been suffered to remain there in peace. But he was not suffered to remain 
there in peace. And this was what prevented him. 

Captain Boldwig was a little fierce man in a stiff black neckerchief and blue 
surtout, who, when he did condescend to walk about his property, did it in com > 
pany with a thick rattan stick with a brass ferrule, and a gardener and sub- 
gardener with meek faces, to whom (the gardeners, not the stick) Captain Boldwig 
gave his orders with all due grandeur and ferocity : for Captain Boldwig’s wife’s 
sister had married a Marquis, and the Captain’s house was a villa, and his land 
“ gi'ounds,” and it was all very high, and mighty, and great. 

Mr. Pickwick had not been asleep half an hour when little Captain Boldwig, 
followed by the two gardeners, came striding along as fast as his size and im- 
portance would let him ; and when he came near the oak tree. Captain Boldwig 
paused, and drew a long breath, and looked at the prospect as if he thought the pros- 
pect opght to be highly gratified at having him to take notice of it ; and then he 
struck the ground emphatically with his stick, and summoned the head-gardener 

“Hunt,” said Captain Boldwig. 

“Yes, sir,” said the gardener. 

“ Roll this place to-monow morning — do you hear, Hunt ?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ And take care that you keep me this place in good order — do you hear, Hunt ? ’* 

“Yes, sir.” 

“And remind me to have a board done about trespassers, and spring guns, and 
all that sort of thing, to keep the common people out. Do you hear, Plunt ; do 
you hear ? ” 

“ I’ll not forget it, sir.” 

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said the other man, advancing, with his hand to 
his hat. 

“ Well, Wilkins, what’s the matter with jyou said Captain Boldwig. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir — but I think there have been trespassers here to-day.” 

“ Ha !” said the Captain, scowling around him. 

“ Yes, sir — they have been dining here, I think, sir.” 

“ Why, confound their audacity, so they have,” said Captain Boldwig, as the 
crumbs and fragments that were strewn upon the grass met his eye. “ They have 
actually been devouring their food here. I wish I had the vagabonds here ! ” said 
the Captain, clenching the thick stick. 

“ I wish I had the vagabonds here,” said the Captain, wrathfuUy. 

“ Beg your pardon, sir,” said Wilkins, “ but — ” 

“But what? Eh?” roared the Captain; and following the timid glance of 
Wilkins, his eyes encountered the wheelbarrow and Mr. Pickwick. 


Captain Boldwig in a Passion. i6i 


“AVTio are you, you rascal ?” said the Captain, administering several pokes to 
Mr. Pickwick’s body with the thick stick. “ What’s your name 

“ Cold punch,” murmured Mr. Pickwick, as he sunk to sleep again. 

“ What demanded Captain Boldwig. 

No reply. 

“ AVhat did he say his name was asked the Captain. 

“ Punch, I think, sir,” replied Wilkins. 

“ 1 hat’s his impudence, that’s his confounded impudence,” said Captain Bold- 
«ig. “ He’s only feigning to be asleep now,” said the Captain, in a high passion. 
“ He’s drunk ; he’s a drunken plebeian. Wheel him away, Wilkins, wheel him 
away directly.” 

“ Where shall I wheel him to, sir ? ” inquired Wilkins, with great timidity. 

“Wheel him to the Devil,” replied Captain Boldwig. 

“Very well, sir,” said Wilkins. 

“ Stay,” said the Captain. 

Wilkins stopped accordingly. 

“Wheel him,” said the Captain, “wheel him to the pound; and let us see 
whether he calls himself Punch when he comes to himself. He shall not bully me, 
he shall not bully me. Wheel him aw?y.” 

Away Mr. Pickwick was wheeled in compliance with this imperious mandate ; 
and the great Captain Boldwig, swelling with indignation, proceeded on his walk. 

Inexpressible was the astonishment of the little party when they returned, to 
find that Mr. Pickwick had disappeared, and taken the wheelbarrow with him. It 
was the most mysterious and unaccountable thing that was ever heard of. For a 
lame man to have got upon his legs without any previous notice, and walked off, 
would have been most extraordinary ; but when it came to his wheeling a heavy 
barrow before him, by way of amusement, it grew positively miraculous. They 
searched every nook and corner round, together and separately; they shouted, 
whistled, laughed, called — and all with the same result. Mr. Pickwick was not to 
be found. After some hours of fruitless search, they arrived at the unwelcome 
conclusion that they must go home without him. 

Meanwhile Mr. Pickwick had been wheeled to the Pound, and safely deposited 
therein, fast asleep in the wheelbarrow, to the immeasurable delight and satisfac- 
tion, not only of all the boys in the village, but three-fourths of the whole popula- 
tion, who had gathered round, in expectation of his waking. If their most intense 
gratification had been excited by seeing him wheeled in, how many hundredfold 
^\ as their joy increased when, after a few indistinct cries of “ Sam ! ” he sat up in 
the barrow, and gazed with indescribable astonishment on the faces before him. 

A general shout was of course the signal of his having woke up ; and his 
irvoluntary inquiry of “What’s the matter.?” occasioned another, louder than the 
first, if possible. 

“ Here’s a game ! ” roared the populace. 

“ Where am I .? ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ In the Pound,” replied the mob. 

“ How came I here ? What was I doing ? Where was I brouglit from ? ” 

“ Boldwig ! Captain Boldwig !” was the only reply. 

“ Let me out,” cried Mr. Pickwick. “ Where’s my servant ? Where are my 
friends.?” 

“ You an’t got no friends. Hurrah ! ” Then there came a turnip, then a potato, 
and then an egg : with a few other little tokens of the playful disposition of the 
many-headed. 

How long this scene might have lasted, or how much Mr. Pickwick might have 
suffered, no one can tell, had not a carriage, which was driving sviiftly by, suddenh 


The Pickwick Club, 


162 


pulled up, from wlience there descended old Wardle and Sam Weller, the fompei 
of whom, in far less time than it takes to write it, if not to read it, had made his 
way to Mr. Pickwick’s side, and placed him in the vehicle, just as the latter had 
concluded the third and last round of a single combat with the town-beadle. 

“ Run to the Justice’s !” cried a dozen voices. 

Ah, ran avay,” said Mr. Weller, jumping up on the box. “ Give my compli- 
ments — Mr. Veller’s compliments — to the Justice, and tell him I’ve spiled his 
beadle, and that, if he’ll svear in a new ’un. I’ll come back agin to-morrow and 
spile him. Drive on, old feUer.” 

“ I’D give directions for the commencement of an action for false imprisonment 
against this Captain Boldwig, directly I get to London,” said Mi, Pickwick, as 
soon as the carriage turned out of the town. 

“ We were trespassing, it seems,” said Wardle. 

“ I don’t care,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ I’ll bring the action.” 

“No, you won’t,” said Wardle. 

“ I will, by — ” but as there was a humorous expression in Wardle’s face, Mr. 
Pickwick checked himself, and said : “ Why not 

“Because,” said old Wardle, half-bursting with laughter, “because they might 
tmn round on some of us, and say we had taken too much cold punch.” 

Do what he would, a smile would come into Mr. Pickwick’s face ; the smile 
extended into a laugh ; the laugh into a roar ; the roar became general. So, to 
keep up their good humour, they stopped at the first roadside tavern they came to, 
and ordered a glass of brandy and water all round, with a magnum of extra 
strength for Mr. Samuel Weller. 


CHAPTER XX. 

SHOWING HOW DODSON AND FOGG WERE MEN OF BUSINESS, AND THEIR CLERKS 
MEN OF PLEASURE ; AND HOW AN AFFECTING INTERVIEW TOOK PLACE 
BETWEEN MR. WELLER AND HIS LONG-LOST PARENT ; SHOWING ALSO 
WHAT CHOICE SPIRITS ASSEMBLED AT THE MAGPIE AND STUMP, AND 
WHAT A CAPITAL CHAPTER THE NEXT ONE \VlLL BE. 

In the giound-floor front of a dingy house, at the very furthest end of Freeman’s 
Court, Comhill, sat the four clerks of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, two of his 
Majesty’s Attorneys of the Courts of King’s Bench and Common Pleas at West- 
minster, and solicitors of the High Court of Chancery : the aforesaid clerks catch- 
ing as favourable glimpses of Heaven’s light and Heaven’s sun, in the course ol 
their daily labours, as a man might hope to do, were he placed at the bottom of a 
reasonably deep well ; and without the opportunity of perceiving the stars in the 
day-time, which the latter secluded situation affords. 

The clerks’ office of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg was a dark, mouldy, earthy- 
smelling room, with a high wainscotted partition to screen the clerks from the 
vulgar gaze : a couple of old wooden chairs : a very loud-ticking clock : an alma- 
nack, an umbrella-stand, a row of hat-pegs, and a few shelves, on which were 
deposited several ticketed bundles of dirty papers, some old deal boxes with paper 
labels, and sundry decayed stone ink bottles of various shapes and sizes. There 
was a glass door leading into the passage which formed the entrance to the court, 
aad on the outer side of this glass door, Mr. Pickwick, closely followed by Sam 


Messrs Dodson and Fogg's Clerks. 163 


Weller, presented himself on the Friday morning succeeding the occurrence, of 
which a faithful narration is given in the last chapter. 

“Come in, can’t you!” cried a voice from behind the partition, in reply to 
Mr. Pickwick’s gentle tap at the door. And Mr. Pickwick and Sam entered 
accordingly. 

“ Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir.?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, gently, ad- 
vancing, hat in hand, towards the partition. 

“ Mr. Dodson ain’t at home, and Mr. Fogg’s particularly engaged,” replied the 
voice ; and at the same time the head to which the voice belonged, with a pel 
behind . its ear, looked over the partition, and at Mr. Pickwick. 

It was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, scrupulously parted on one side, 
and flattened down with pomatum, was twisted into little semi-circular tails rouncl 
a flat face ornamented with a pair of small eyes, and garnished with a very dirty 
shirt collar, and a rusty black stock. 

“Mr. Dodson ain’t at home, and Mr. Fogg’s particularly engaged,” said the 
man to whom the head belonged. 

“ When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Can’t say.” 

“ Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, sir ?” 

“ Don’t know.” 

Here the man proceeded to mend his pen with great deliberation, while another 
clerk, who was mixing a Seidlitz powder, under cover of the lid of his desk, 
laughed approvingly. 

“I think I’ll wait,” said Mr. Pickwick. There was no reply; so Mr. Pickwick 
sat down unbidden, and listened to the loud ticking of the clock and the murmured 
conversation of the clerks. 

“That was a game, wasn’t it ?” said one of the gentlemen, in a brown coat 
and brass buttons, inky drabs, and bluchers, at the conclusion of some inaudible 
relation of his previous evening’s adventures. 

“Devilish good — devilish good,” said the Seidlitz-powder man. 

“ Tom Cummins was in the chair,” said the man with the brown coat ; “It was 
half-past four when I got to Somers Town, and then I was so uncommon lushey, 
that I couldn’t find the place where the latcli-key went in, and was obliged to 
knock up the old ’ooman. I say, I wonder what old Fogg ’ud say, if he knew it. 
I should get the sack, I s’pose — eh 

At this humorous notion, all the clerks laughed in concert. 

“There was such a game with Fogg here, this mornin’,” said the man in the 
brown coat, “ while Jack was up stairs sorting the papers, and you two were gone 
to the stamp-office. Fogg was down here, opening the letters, when that chap as 
we issued the writ against at Camberwell, you know, came in — what’s his name 
again?” 

“ Ramsey,” said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. Pickwick. 

“Ah, Ramsey — a precious seedy-looking customer. ‘ Well, sir,’ says old Fogg, 
looking at him very fierce — you know his way — ‘ well, sir, have you come to settle ?’ 
‘ Yes, I have, sir,’ said Ramsey, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out 
the money, ‘ the debt’s two pound ten, and the costs three pound five, and here it 
is, sir and he sighed like bricks, as he lugged out the money, done up in a bit of 
blotting-paper. Old Fogg looked first at the money, and then at him, and then 
he coughed in his rum way, so that I knew something was coming. ‘ You don t 
know there’s a declaration filed, which increases the costs materially, I suppose ?’ 
said Fogg. ‘ You don’t say that, sir,’ said Ramsey, starting back ; ‘ the time was 
only out last night, sir.’ ‘ I do say it, though,’ said Fogg, ‘ my clerk’s just gone 
to hie it. Hasn’t Mr. Jackson gone to file that declaiation in Bullman and 


The Pickwick Club. 


164 


Ramsey, Mr. Wicks ?’ Of course I said yes, and then Fogg coughed again, and 
looked at Ramsey. ‘ My God ! ’ said Ramsey ; ‘ and here have I nearly driven 
myself mad, scraping this money together, and all to no purpose.’ ‘ None at all,’ 
said Fogg, coolly ; ‘ so you had better go back and scrape some more together, 
and bring it here in time.’ ‘ I can’t get it, by God ! ’ said Ramsey, strilcing the 
desk with his fist. ‘ Don’t bully me, sir,’ said Fogg getting into a passion on 
purpose. ‘lam not bullying you, sir,’ said Ramsey. ‘You are,’ said Fogg; 
‘ get out, sir; get out of this office, sii, and come back, sir, when you know how 
to behave yourself.’ Well, Ramsey tried to speak, but Fogg wouldn’t let him, so 
he put the money in his pocket, and sneaked out. The door was scarcely shut, 
when old Fogg turned round to me, with a sweet smile on his face, and drew the 
declaration out of his coat pocket. ‘ Here, Wicks,’ says Fogg, ‘ take a cab, and 
go down to the Temple as quick as you can, and file that. The costs are quite 
safe, for he’s a steady man with a large family, at a salary of five-and-twenty 
shillings a week, and if he gives us a warrant of attorney, as he must in the end, 
I know his employers will see it paid ; so we may as well get all we can out of 
him, Mr, Wicks ; it’s a Christian act to do it, Mr. Wicks, for with his large family 
and small income, he’ll be all the better for a good lesson against getting into 
debt, — M'on’t he, Mr. Wicks, won’t he.?’ — and he smiled so good-naturedly as he 
went away, that it was delightful to see him. He is a capital man of business,” 
said Wicks, in a tone of the deepest admiration, “ capital, isn’t he .?” 

The other three cordially subscribed to this opinion, and the anecdote afforded 
the most unlimited satisfaction. 

“ Nice men these here, sir,” whispered Mr. WeUer to liis master ; “ wery nice 
notion of fun they has, sir.” 

Mr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to attract the attention of the young 
gentlemen behind the partition, who, having now relaxed their minds by a little 
conversation among themselves, condescended to take some notice of the stranger. 

“ I wonder whether Fogg’s disengaged now said Jackson. 

“ I’ll see,” said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. “ Wliat name 
shall I tell Mr. Fogg ?” 

“ Pickwick,” replied the illustrious subject of these memoii-s. 

Mr. Jackson departed up stairs on his errand, and immediately retimied with 
a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes ; and having 
delivered it, returned again to his desk. 

“ What did he say his name was ?” whispered Wicks. 

“ Pickwick,” replied Jackson ; “ it’s the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick.” 

A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressed laughter, was 
heard from behind the partition. 

“ They’re a twiggin’ of you, sir,” whispered Mr. Weller. 

“Twigging of me, Sam!” replied Mr. Pickwick; “what do you mean by 
twigging me .?” 

Mr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and Mr. 
Pickwick, on looking up, bec.^me sensible of the pleasing fact, that all the fom 
clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmost amusement, and with their 
heads thrust over the wooden screen, were minutely inspecting the figure and 
general appearance of the supposed trifler with female hearts, and disturber of 
female happiness. On his looking up, the row of heads suddenly disappeared, 
and the sound of pens travelling at a furious rate over paper, immediately suc- 
ceeded. ^ 

A sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office, summoned Mr. Jackson to 
lie apartment of Fogg, from whence he came back to say that he (Fogg) wasread^ 
to see Mr. Pickwick if he v^ould step up stairs. ^ 


Moral (and Legal) Elevation, 

Up stairs Mr. Pickwick did step accordingly, leaving Sam Weller below. The 
room door of the one-pair back, bore inscribed in legible characters the imposing 
words “ Mr. Fogg and, having tapped thereat, and been desu’ed to come in, 
Jackson ushered Mr. Pickwick into the presence. 

“ Is Mr. Dodson in ?” inquired Mr. Fogg. 

“ Just come in, sir,” replied Jackson. 

“ Ask him to step here.” 

“ Yes, sir.” Exit Jackson. 

“Take a seat, sir,” said Fogg; “there is the paper, sir; my partner wiU be 
here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir.” 

Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but, instead of reading the latter, 
peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of th'* man of business, who was an 
elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, in a black coat, dark mixture 
trousers, and small black gaiters : a kind of being who seemed to be an essential 
part of the desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or senti- 
ment. 

After a few minutes’ silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly, stem-looking man, 
with a loud voice, appeared ; and the conversation commenced. 

“ This is Mr. Pickwick,” said Fogg. 

“ Ah ! You are the defendant, sir, in Bardell and Pickwick said Dodson. 

“lam, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Well, sir,” said Dodson, “ and what do you propose 

“ Ah !” said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his trousers’ pockets, and throwing 
himself back in his chair, “ what do you propose, Mr. Pickwick 

“ Hush, Fogg,” said Dodson, “ let me hear what Mr. Pickwick has to say.” 

“ I came, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick, gazing placidly on the two partners, 
“ I came here, gentlemen, to express the surprise with which I received your letter 
of the other day, and to inquire what grounds of action you can have against me.” 

“ Grounds of — ” Fogg had ejaculated thus much, when he was stopped by 
Dodson. 

“ Mr. Fogg,” said Dodson, “ I am going to speak.” 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodson,” said Fogg. 

“ For the grounds of action, sir,” continued Dodson, with moral elevation in 
his air, “you will consult your own conscience and your own feelings. We, sir, 
we, are guided entirely by the statement of our client. That statement, sir, may 
be true, or it may be false ; it may be credible, or it may be incredible ; but, if it 
be true, and if it be credible, I do not hesitate to say, sir, that our grounds of 
action, sir, are strong, and not to be shaken. You may be an unfortunate man, sir, 
or you may be a designing one ; but if I were called upon, as a juryman upon my 
oath, sir, to express an opinion of your conduct, sir, I do not hesitate to assert that 
I should have but one opinicn about it.” Here Dodson drew himself up, with an 
air of offended virtue, and locked at Fogg, who thrust his hands further in his 
pockets, and, nodding his head sagely, said, in a tone of the fullest conciurence, 
“ Most certainly.” 

“ Well, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable pain depicted in his counte- 
nance, “ you will permit me to assme you, that I am a most unfortunate man, so 
far as this case is concerned.” 

“ I hope you are, sir,” replied Dodson ; I trust you may be, sir. If you are 
really innocent of what is laid to your charge, you are more unfortunate than I had 
believed any man could possibly be. Wliat do you say, Mr. Fogg.?” 

“ I say precisely what you say,” replied Fogg, with a smile of incredulity. ^ 

“ The UTit, sir, which commences the action,” continued Dodson, “ was issued 
regularly. Mr. Fogg, where is d\o prcecipe book ?” 


i66 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Here it is,” said Fogg, handing over a square book, with a parchment cover. 

“ Here is the entiy,” resumed Dodson. “ ‘ Middlesex, Capias Mai-tha Bardell^ 
widow, V. Samuel Pickwick. Damages, ^1^1500. Dodson and Fogg for the 
plaintiff, Aug. 28, 1830.’ All regular, sir ; perfectly.” Dodson coughed and 
looked at Fogg, who said “ Perfectly,” also. And tlien they both looked at Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“ I am to understand, then,” said Mr. Pickwick, that it really is your inten- 
tion to proceed with this action ?” 

“ Understand, sir? That you certainly may,” replied Dodson, with something 
as near a smile as his importance would allow. 

“ And that the damages are actually laid at fifteen hundred pounds ?” said Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“To which understanding you may- add my assurance, that if we could have 
prevailed upon our chent, they would have been laid at treble the amount, sir :” 
replied Dodson. 

“ I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said, however,” observed Fogg, glancing at 
Dodson, “ that she would not compromise for a farthing less.” 

“ Unquestionably,” replied Dodson, sternly. For the action was only just 
begun ; and it wouldn’t have done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise it then, even 
if he had been so disposed. 

“ As you offer no terms, sir,” said Dodson, displaying a slip of parchment in 
his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copy of it, on Mr. Pickwick 
with his left, “ I had better serve you with a copy of this writ, sir. Here is the 
original, sir.” 

“ Very well, gentlemen, very well,” said Mr. Pickwick, rising in person and 
WTath at the same time ; “you shall hear from my solicitor, gentlemen.” 

“ We shall be very happy to do so,” said Fogg, rubbing his hands. 

“ Very,” said Dodson, opening the door. 

“ And before I go, gentlemen,” said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turning round 
on the landing, “ permit me to say, that of aU the disgraceful and rascally pro- 
ceedings — ” 

“ Stay, sir, stay,” interposed Dodson, with gi-eat politeness. “ Mr. Tackson ! 
Mr. Wicks!” s j 

“ Sir,” said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs. 

“ I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says,” replied Dodson. 
“ Pray, go on, sir — disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think you said ?” 

“1 did,” said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. “I said, sir, that of all the 
disgraceful and rascally proceedings that that ever were attempted, this is the most 
so. I repeat it, sir.” 

“ You hear that, Mr. Wicks ?” said Dodson. 

“ You won’t forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson ?” said Fogg. 

“ Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir,” said Dodson. “Pray do, 
sir, if you feel disposed ; now pray do, sir.” 

“ I do,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ You are swindlers.” 

“ Very good,” said Dodson. “ You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks ?” 

“ Oh yes, sir,” said Wicks. 

“ You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can’t,” added Mr. Fogg. 
“ Go on, sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, sir; or perhaps you 
would like to assault one of us. Pray do it, sir, if you would ; we will not make 
the smallest resistance. Pray do it, sir.” 

As Fogg put himself very temptinglv within the reach of Mr. Pickwick’s 
clenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would have complied with 
bis earnest entreaty, but for the interposition of Sam, who, hearing the dispute, 


The Elder Mr. Weller appears. 


emerged from the office, mounted the stairs, and seized his 
arm. 


^ 

master by the 


“You just come avay,” said Mr. Weller. “Battledore and shuttlecock’s a 
wery good game, vhen you an’t the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores, 
in which case it gets too excitin’ to be pleasant. Come avay, sir. If you want to 
ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come out into the court and blow up 
me ; but it ’s rayther too expensive work to be carried on here.” 

And without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master down the 
stairs, and down the court, and having safely deposited him in Comhill, fell be- 
hind, prepared to follow whithersoever he should lead. 

Mr. Pickwick walked on abstractedly, crossed opposite the Mansion House, 
and bent his steps up Cheapside. Sam began to wonder where they were going, 
when his master turned round, and said : 

“ Sam, I will go immediately to Mr. Perker’s.” 

“ That’s just exactly the wery place vere you ought to have gone last night, 
sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ I think it is, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I k7tow it is,” said Mr. Weller. 

“ Well, well, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “ we will go there at once, but first, 
as I have been rather ruffled, I should like a glass of brandy and water warm, 
Sam. Where can I have it, Sam ?” 

Mr. Weller’s knowledge of London was extensive and peculiar. He replied, 
without the slightest consideration : 

“ Second court on the right hand side — ^last house but vun on the same side the 
vay — take the box as stands in the first fire-place, ’cos there an’t no leg in the 
middle o’ the table, wich all the others has, and it’s wery inconwenient.” 

Mr. Pickwick observed his valet’s directions implicitly, and bidding Sam follow 
him, entered the tavern he had pointed out, where the hot brandy and water was 
speedily placed before him ; while Mr. Weller, seated at a respectful distance, 
though at the same table with his master, was accommodated with a pint of porter. 

The room was one of a very homely description, and was apparently under the 
especial patronage of stage coachmen : for several gentlemen, who had all the 
appearance of belonging to that learned profession, were drinlcing and smoking in 
the different boxes. Among the number was one stout, red-faced, elderly man in 
particular, seated in an opposite box, who attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention. 
The stout man was smoking with great vehemence, but between eveiy half-dozen 
puffs, he took his pipe from his mouth, and looked first at Mr. Weller and then 
at Mr. Pickwick. Then, he would bury in a quart pot, as much of his countenance 
as the dimensions of the quart pot admitted of its receiving, and take another look 
at Sam and Mr. Pickwick. Then he would take another half-dozen puffs with an 
air of profound meditation and look at them again. At last the stout man, putting 
up his legs on the seat, and leaning his back against the wall, began to puff at his 
pipe without leaving off at all, and to stare thiough the smoke at the new comers, 
as if he had made up his mind to see the most he could of them. 

At first the evolutions of the stout man had escaped Mr. Weller’s observation, 
but by degrees, as he saw Mr. Pickwick’s eyes every now and then turning towards 
him, he began to gaze in the same direction, at the same time shading his eyes 
with his hand, as if he partially recognised the object before him, and wished to 
make quite sure of its identity. His doubts were speedily dispelled, however ; for 
the stout man having blown a thick cloud from his pipe, a hoarse voice, like some 
strange efibrt of ventriloquism, emerged from beneath the capacious shawls which 
muffled his throat and chest, and slowly uttered these sounds — “ Wy, Sammy J” 

“ Who’s that, Sam inquired Mr. Pickwick. 


The Pickwick Cluh, 


i68 


Why, I wouldn’t ha* believed it, sir,” replied Mr. Weller with astonished 
eyes. “ It ’s the old ’un.” 

“ Old one,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ What old one ? ” 

“ My father, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “ How are you, my ancient ?” With 
which beautiful ebullition of filial affection, Mr. Weller made room on the seat 
beside him, for the stout man, who advanced pipe in mouth and pot in hand, to 
greet him. 

“ Wy, Sammy,** said the father, “ I han’t seen you, for two yfear and better.” 
Nor more you have, old codger,” replied the son. “ How’s mother in law ?’* 
Wy, I’ll tell you what, Sammy,” said Mr. WeUer, senior, with much solem- 
nity in his manner ; “ there never was a nicer woman as a widder, than that ’ere 
second wentur o’ mine — a sweet creetur she was, Sammy ; all I can say on her 
now, is, that as she was such an uncommon pleasant widder, it’s a great pity she 
ever changed her con-dition. She don’t act as a vife, Sammy.” 

“ Don’t she, though ?” inquired Mr. Weller junior. 

The elder Mr. Weller shook his head, as he replied with a sigh, “I’ve done it 
once too often, Sammy ; I ’ve done it once too often. Take example by your 
father, my boy, and be wery careful o’ widders all your life, specially if they’ve* 
kept a public-house, Sammy.” Having delivered this parental advice with gi'eat 
pathos, Mr. Weller senior re-filled his pipe from a tin box he carried in his 
pocket, and, lighting his fresh pipe from the ashes of the old one, commenced 
smoking at a great rate. 

“ Beg your pardon, sir,” he said, renewing the subject, and addressing Mr. 
Pickwick, after a considerable pause, “ nothin’ personal, I hope, sir ; I hope you 
han’t got a widder, sir.” 

“ Not I,” replied Mr. Pickwick, laughing ; and while Mr. Piclcwick laughed, 
Sam Weller informed his parent in a whisper, of the relation in which he stood 
towards that gentleman. 

“ Beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his hat, “ I hope 
you’ve no favilt to find "with Sammy, sir ? ** 

“ None whatever,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Weiy glad to hear it, sir,” replied the old man ; “ I took a good deal o* pains 
with his eddication, sir ; let him run in the streets when he was weiy young, and 
shift for his-self. It’s the only way to make a boy sharp, sir.” 

“ Rather a dangerous process, I should imagine,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a 
smile. 

“ And not a wery sure one, neither,” added Mr. Weller ; “ I got reg’larly done 
the other day.” 

“ No ! ” said his father. 

“ I did,” said the son ; and he proceeded to relate, in as few words as possible, 
how he had fallen a ready dupe to the stratagems of Job Trotter. 

Mr. Weller senior listened to the tale with the most profound attention, and, 
at its termination, said : 

“ Worn’t one o’ these chaps slim and tall, with long hair, and the gift o* the 
gab wery gallopin’ ? ” 

Mr. Pickwick did not quite understand the last item of description, but, com- 
prehending the first, said “ Yes,” at a venture. 

“ T ’other’s a black-haired chap in mulbeny livery, with a wery large head ? ” 

“Yes, yes, he is,” said Mr. Pickwick and Sam, with great earnestness. 

“Then I know where they are, and that’s all about it,” said Mr. Weller,* 
“they’re at Ipswich, safe enough, them two.” 

“ No ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

•« Fact,” said Mr. Weller, “ and I’ll te’l you how I loiow it. I work an Ipswich 


Infallible Prescription for the Gout. i6g 

coach now and then for a friend o’ mine. I worked down the wery day arter the 
night as you caught the rheumatiz, and at the Black Boy at Chelmsford — the weiy 
place they’d come to — I took ’em up, right through to Ipswich, where the man 
servant — him in the mulberries — told me they was a goin’ to put up for a long 

time.” 

“I’ll follow him,” said Mr. Pickwick; “we may as well see Ipswich as any 
other place. I’ll follow him.” 

“ You’re quite certain it was them, governor ? ” inquired Mr. Weller, junior. 

“ Quite, Sammy, quite,” replied his father, “ for their appearance is wery 
sing’ler ; besides that ’ere, I wondered to see the gen’lm’n so fonniliar with his 
servant ; and, more than that, as they sat in front, right behind the box, I heerd 
’em laughing, and saying how they’d done old Fireworks.” 

“ Old who ? ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Old Fireworks, sir; by which, I’ve no doubt, they meant you, sir.” 

There is nothing positively vile or atrocious in the appellation of “ old Fire- 
works,” but still it is by no means a respectful or flattering designation. The 
recollection of ail the wrongs he had sustained at Jingle’s hands had crowded on 
Mr. Pickwick’s mind, the moment Mr. Weller began to speak : it wanted but a 
feather to turn the scale, and “ old Fireworks ” did it. 

“ I’U follow him,” said Mr. Pickwick, with an emphatic blow on the table. 

“ I shall work down to Ipswich the day arter to-monow, sir,” said Mr. Weller 
the elder, “ from the Bull in Whitechapel ; and if you really mean go, you’d better 
go with me.” 

“ So we had,” said Mr. Pickwick; “very true ; I can write to Bury, and teU 
them to meet me at Ipswich. We will go with you. But don’t hurry away, Mr. 
Weller ; won’t you take anything ? ” 

“You’re weiy good, sir,” replied Mr. W., stopping short; “perhaps a small 
glass of brandy to drink your health, and success to Sammy, sir, wouldn’t be 
amiss.” 

“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “A glass of brandy here!” The 
brandy was brought : and Mr. Weller, after pulling his hair to Mr. Pickwick, and 
nodding to Sam, jerked it down his capacious throat as if it had been a small 
thimble-full. 

“ Well done, father,” said Sam, “ take care, old fellow, or you’ll have a touch 
of your old complaint, the gout.” 

“ I’ve found a sov’rin’ cure for that, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, setting down 
the glass. 

“ A sovereign cure for the gout,” said Mr. Pickwick, hastily producing his note- 
book — “ what is it ? ” 

“The gout, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, “ the gout is a complaint as arises from 
too much ease and comfort. If ever you ’re attacked with the gout, sir, jist you 
many a wddder as has got a good loud woice, with a decent notion of usin’ it, and 
you’ll never have the gout agin. It’s a capital prescription, sir I takes it reg’lar, 
and I can warrant it to drive away any illness as is caused by too much jollity.” 
Having imparted this valuable secret, Mr. Weller drained his glass once more, 
produced a laboured wink, sighed deeply, and slowly retired. 

“ Well, what do you thinlc of what your father says, Sam ?” inquired Mr. Pick- 
wick, with a smile. 

“Think, sir!” replied Mr. Weller; “why, I think he’s the wictim o’ connu- 
biality, as Blue Beard’s domestic chaplain said, with a tear of pity, ven he buried 

him.” 

There was no replying to this very apposite conclusion, and, therefore, Mr. 
Pickwick, after settling the reckoning, resumed his walk to Gray’s Inn. By thtf 


170 


The Pickwick Clul\ 


time he reached its secluded groves, however, eight o’clock had struck, and the 
unbroken stream of gentlemen in muddy high-lows, soiled white hats, and rusty 
apparel, who were pouring towards the difierent avenues of egiess, warned him 
that the majority of the offices had closed for that day. 

After climbing two pairs of steep and dirty stairs, he found his anticipations 
were realised. Mr. Perker’s “outer door” was closed; and the dead silence 
which follov/cd Mr. Weller’s repeated kicks thereat, announced that the officials 
had retired from business for the night. 

“This is pleasant, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick; “I shouldn’t lose an hour in 
seeing him ; I shall not be able to get one wink of sleep to-night, I know, unless 
I have the satisfaction of reflecting that I have confided this matter to a profes- 
sional man.” 

“ Here’s an old ’ooman cornin’ up-stairs, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; “p’raps she 
knows where we can find somebody. Hallo, old lady, vere ’s Mr. Perker’s people ? ” 

“ Mr. Perker’s people,” said a thin, miserable-looking old woman, stopping to 
recover breath after the ascent of the staircase, “Mr. Perker’s people’s gone, and 
I’m a goin’ to do the office out.” 

“ Are you Mr. Perker’s servant ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I am Mr. Perker’s laundress,” replied the old woman. 

“Ah,” said Mr. Pickwick, half aside to Sam, “it’s a curious circumstance, Sam, 
that they call the old women in these inns, laundresses. I wonder what’s that for.” 

“ ’Cos they has a mortal awersion to washing anythin’, I suppose, sir,” replied 
Mr. Weller. 

“ I shouldn’t wonder,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the old woman, whose 
appearance, as well as the condition of the office, which she had by this, time 
opened, indicated a rooted antipathy to the application of soap and water; “ do 
you know where I can find Mr. Perker, my good woman ? ” 

“ No, I don’t,” replied the old woman, gruffly ; “ he’s out o’ town now.” 

“ That’s unfortunate,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ where’s his clerk } Do you know?” 

“ Yes, I know where he is, but he won’t thank me for telling you,” replied the 
laundress. 

“ 1 have very particular business with him,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Won’t it do in the morning ?” said the woman. 

“ Not so well,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Well,” said the old woman, “if it was anything very particular, I was to say 
where he was, so I suppose there’s no haim in telling. If you just go to the 
Magpie and Stump, and ask at the bar for Mr. Lowten, they’ll show you in to 
him, and he’s Mr. Perker’s clerk.” 

With this direction, and having been furthermore informed that the hostelry in 
question was situated in a court, happy in the double advantage of being in the 
vicinity of Clare Market, and closely approximating to the back of New Inn, 
Mr. Pickwick and Sam descended the ricketty staircase in safety, and issued forth 
in quest of the Magpie and Stump. 

This favoured tavern, sacred to the evening orgies of Mr. Lowten and his com - 

E anions, was what ordinary people would designate a public-house. That the 
indlord was a man of a money-making turn, was sufficiently testified by the fact 
of a small bulk-head beneath the tap-room window, in size and shape not unlike a 
sedan-chair, being underlet to a mender of shoes : and that he was a being of a 
philanthropic mind, was evident from the protection he afforded to a pie- 
man, who vended his delicacies without fear of inteiTuption on the very door-step. 
In the lower windows, which were decorated with curtains of a saffron hue, 
dangled two or three piinted cards, bearing reference to Devonshire cyder and 
Dantzic spruce, while i large black board, announcing in white letters to an 


A Convivial Assemblage. 171 

snlightened public that they were 500,000 barrels of double stout in the cellars of 
the establishment, left the mind in a state of not unpleasing doubt and uncertainty 
as to the precise direction in the bowels of the earth, in which this mighty cavern 
might be supposed to extend. When we add, that the weather-beaten sign-board 
bore the hall-obliterated semblance of a magpie intently eyeing a crooked streak 
of brown paint, which the neighbours had been taught from infancy to consider as 
the “ stump,” we have said all that need be said of the exterior of the edifice. 

On Mr. Pickwick’s presenting himself at the bar, an elderly female emerged 
.om behind a screen therein, and presented herself before him. 

“ Is Mr. Lowten here, ma’am inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“Yes he is, sir,” replied the landlady. “Here, Charley, show the gentleman 
in, to Mr. Lowten.” 

“The gen’lm’n can’t go in just now,” said a shambling pot-boy, with a red 
head, “ ’cos Mr. Lowten ’s a singin’ a comic song, and he’ll put him out. He’ll 
be done d’rectly, sir.” 

The red-headed pot-boy had scarcely finished speaking, when a most unanimous 
hammering of tables, and jingling of glasses, announced that the song had that 
instant terminated ; and Mr. Pickwick, after desiring Sam to solace himself in the 
tap, suffered himself to be conducted into the presence of Mr. Lowten. 

At the announcement of “ gentleman to speak to you, sir,” a puffy-faced young 
man, who filled the chair at the head of the table, looked with some surprise in 
the direction from whence the voice proceeded : and the surprise seemed to be by 
no means diminished, when his eyes rested on an individual whom he had never 
seen before. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ and I am very sorry to disturb 
the other gentlemen, too, but I come on veiy particular business ; and if you will 
suffer me to detain you at this end of the room for five minutes, I shall be veiy 
much obliged to you.” 

“The pufl'y-faced young man rose, and drawing a chair close to Mr. Pickwick 
in an obscure corner of the room, listened attentively to his tale of woe.. 

“Ah,” he said, when Mr. Pickwick had concluded, “Dodson and Fogg — 
sharp practice their’s — capital men of business, Dodson and Fogg, sir.” 

.Mr. Pickwick admitted the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg, and Lowten 
resumed. 

“Perker ain’t in town, and he won’t be, neither, before the end of next week ; 
but if you want the action defended, and will leave the copy with me, I can do all 
that’s needful ’till he comes back.” 

“ That’s exactly what I came here for,” said Mr. Pickwick, handing over the 
document. “ If anything particular occurs, you can write to me at the post-office, 
Ipswich.” 

“ That’s all right,” replied Mr. Perker’s clerk ; and then seeing Mr. Pickwick’s 
eye wandeting curiously towards the table, he added, “ Will you join us, for half- 
an-hour or so ? We are capital company here to-night. There’s Samkin and 
Green’s managing-clerk, and Smithers and Price’s chancery, and Pimkin and 
Thomas’s out o’ door — sings a capital song, he does — and Jack Bamber, and ever 
so many more. You’re come out of the countiy, I suppose. Would you like to 
join us 

Mr. Pickwick could not resist so tempting an opportunity of studying human 
nature. He suffered himself to be led to the table, where, after having been 
introduced to the company in due form, he was accommodated with a seat near 
the chairman, and called lor a glass of his favourite beverage. 

A pi ofound silence, quite contraiy to IMr. Pickwick’s expectation, succeeded. 
“You don’t find this sort of thing disagreeable, I hope, sir?” said h’^ right 


172 


The Pickwick Club. 


hand neighbour, a gentleman in a checked shirt, and Mosaic studs, with a cig*r in 
his mouth. 

“ Not in the least,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “ I like it very much, although I am 
no smoker myself.” 

“ I should be very sony to say I wasn’t,” interposed another gentleman on the 
opposite side of the table. “ It’s board and lodging to me, is smoke.” 

Mr. Pickwick glanced at the speaker, and thought that if it were washing too, it 
would be all the better. 

Here there was another pause. Mr. Pickwick was a stranger, and his coming 
^'ad evidently cast a damp upon the party. 

“ Mr. Grundy’s going to oblige the company with a song,” said the chairman. 

“ No he ain’t,” said Mr. Grundy. 

“ Why not said the chairman. 

“Because he can’t,” said Mr. Grundy. 

“ You had better say he won’t,” replied the chainnan. 

“ Well, then, he won’t,” retorted Mr. Grundy. Mr. Grundy’s positive refuse? 
to giatify the company, occasioned another silence. 

“ Won’t anybody enliven us said the chairman, despondingly. 

“ Why don’t you enliven us yourself, Mr. Chairman said a young man with < 
whisker, a squint, and an open shirt collar (dirty), from the bottom of the table. 

“ Hear ! hear !” said the smoking gentleman in the Mosaic jewelleiy. 

“ Because I only know one song, and I have sung it already, and it’s a fine a 
* glasses round ’ to sing the same song twice in a night,” replied the chairman. 

This was an unanswerable reply, and silence prevailed again. 

“ I have been to-night, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick, hoping to start a sub- 
ject which all the company could take a part in discussing, “ I have been to-night 
in a place which you all know very well, doubtless, but which I have not been ir 
before for some years, and know very little of ; I mean Gray’s Inn, gentlemen. 
Curious little nooks in a great place, like London, these old Inns are.” 

“ By Jove,” said the chapman, whispering across the table to Mr. Pickwick, 
“ you have hit upon somethmg that one of us, at least, would talk upon for ever. 
You’ll draw old Jack Bamber out; he was never heard to talk about anything 
else but the Inns, and he has lived alone in them till he’s half crazy.” 

The individual to whom Lowten alluded, was a little yellow high-shouldered 
man, whose countenance, from his habit of stooping forward when silent, Mr. 
Pickwick had not observed before. He wondered though, when the old man 
raised his shrivelled face, and bent his grey eye upon him, with a keen inquiring 
look, that such remarkable features could have escaped his attention for a moment. 
There was a fixed grim smile perpetually on his countenance ; he leant his chin on 
a long skinny hand, with nails of extraordinary length ; and as he inclined his 
head to one side, and looked keenly out from beneath his ragged grey eyebrows, 
there was a strange, wild slyness in his leer, quite rephlsive to behold. 

This was the figure tliat now started forward, and burst into an animated torrent 
of words. As this chapter has been a long one, however, and as the old man was 
a remarkable personage, it will be more respectful to him, and more convenient lo 
osy to let him speak for himself in a fresh one. 


Inns of Court. 


1)3 


CHAPTER XXI. 

IN WHICH THE OLD MAN LAUNCHES FORTH INTO HIS FAVOURITE THEME, AND 
RELATES A STORY ABOUT A QUEER CLIENT. 

“ Aha ! ” said the old man, a brief description of whose manner and appearance 
concluded the last chapter, “ Aha ! who was talking about the Inns ? ” 

“ I was, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick ; “ I was observing what singular old places 
they are.” 

“ You said the old man, contemptuously, “What do you know of the time 
when young men shut themselves up in those lonely rooms, and read and read, 
hour after hour, and night after night, till their reason wandered beneath their 
midnight studies ; till their mental powers were exhausted ; till morning’s light 
brought no freshness or health to them ; and they sank beneath the unnatural 
devotion of their youthful energies to their diy old books ? Coming down to a 
later time, and a very different day, what do you know of the gradual sinking 
beneath consumption, or the quick wasting of fever — the grand results of ‘ life ’ 
and dissipation — which men have undergone in these same rooms ? How many 
vain pleaders for mercy, do you think have turned away heart-sick from the law- 
yer’s office, to find a resting-place in the Thames, or a refuge in the gaol } They 
are no ordinary houses, those. There is not a pannel in the old wainscotting, but 
what, if it were endowed with the powers of speech and memory, could start 
from the waU, and tell its tale of horror — the romance of life, sir, the romance of 
life ! Common-place as they may seem now, I tell you they are strange old places, 
and I would rather hear many a legend with a terrific sounding name, than the 
true history of one old set of chambers.” 

There was something so odd in the old man’s sudden energy, and the subject 
which had called it forth, that Mr. Pickwick was prepared with no observation in 
leply ; and the old man checking his impetuosity, and resuming the leer, which 
had disappeared during his previous excitement, said : 

“ Look at them in another light : their most common-place and least romantic. 
What fine places of slow' torture they are ! Think of the needy man who has 
spent his all, beggared himself, and pinched his friends, to enter the profession, 
which will never yield him a morsel of bread. The waiting — the hope — the dis- 
appointment — the fear — the misery — the poverty — the blight on his hopes, and 
end to his career — the suicide perhaps, or the shabby, slipshod drunkard. Am I 
not right about them ? ” And the old man rubbed his hands, and leered as if in 
delight at having found another point of view in which to place his favourite subject. 

Mr. Pickwick eyed the old man with great curiosity, and the remainder of the 
company smiled, and looked on in silence. 

“ Talk of your German universities,” said the little old man. “Pooh, pooh! 
there’s romance enough at home without going half a mile for it ; only people 
never think of it.” 

“ I never thought of the romance of this particular subject before, certainly,” 
said Mr. Pickwick, laughing. 

“ To be sure you didn’t,” said the little old man, “ of course not. As a friend 
of mine used to say to me, ‘ What is there in chambers, in particular ? ’ ‘ ^ueer 

old places,’ said 1. ‘ Not at all,’ said he. ‘ Lonely,’ said I. ‘ Not a bit of it,’ 

said he. He died one morning of apoplexy, as he was going to open his outer 
door. Fell with his head in his own letter-box, and there he lay for eighteen 
months. Every body thought he’d gone out of town.” 

“ And how was he found at last ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 


174 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ The benchers determined to have his door broken 'open, as he hadn’t paid anj 
rent for two years. So they did. Forced the lock ; and a very dusty skeleton in 
a blue coat, black knee-shorts, and silks, fell fonvard in the arms of the porter who 
opened the door. Queer, that. Rather, perhaps } ” The little old man put his 
head more on one side, and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee. 

“ I know another case,” said the little old man, when his chucldes had in some 
degree subsided. “ It occuired in Clifford’s Inn. Tenant of a top set — bad 
character — shut himself up in his bed-room closet, and took a dose of arsenic. 
The steward thought he had run away ; opened the door, and put a bill up. 
Another man came, took the chambers, furnished them, and went to live there. 
Somehow or other he couldn’t sleep — always restless and uncomfortable. ‘ Odd,’ 
says he. ‘ I’ll make the other room my bed-chamber, and this my sitting-room.’ 
He made the change, and slept veiy well at night, but suddenly found that, some- 
how, he couldn’t read in the evening : he got nervous and uncomfortable, and 
used to be always snuffing his candles and staring about him. ‘ I can’t make this 
out,’ said he, when he came home from the play one night, and was drinking a 
glass of cold grog, with his back to the wall, in order that he mightn’t be able to 
fancy there was any one behind him — ‘ I can’t make it out,’ said he ; and just then 
his eyes rested on the little closet that had been always locked up, and a shudder 
ran through his whole frame from top to toe. ‘ I have felt this strange feeling 
before,’ said he, ‘ I cannot help thinking there’s something wrong about that 
closet.’ He made a strong effort, plucked up his courage, shivered the lock with 
a blow or two of the poker, opened the door, and there, sure enough, standing 
bolt upright in the corner, was the last tenant, with a little bottle clasped firmly in 
his hand, and his face — well ! ” As the little old man concluded, he looked 
round on the attentive faces of his wondering auditory with a smile of grim delight. 

“ What strange things these are you tell us of, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, minutely 
scanning the old man’s countenance, by the aid of his glasses. 

“ Strange !” said the little old man. “Nonsense; you think them strange, 
because you know nothing about it. They are funny, but not uncommon.” 

“ Funny ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, involuntarily. 

“ Yes, funny, are they not } ” replied the little old man, with a diabolical leer ; 
and then, without pausing for an answer, he continued :* 

“ I knew another man — let me see — forty years ago now — who took an old, 
damp, rotten set of chambers, in one of the most ancient Inns, that had been shut 
up and empty for years and years before. There were lots of old women’s stories 
about the place, and it certainly was very far from being a cheerful one ; but he 
was poor, and the rooms were cheap, and that would have been quite a sufficient 
reason for him, if they had been ten times worse than they really were. He was 
obliged to take some mouldering fixtures that were on the place, and, among the 
rest, was a great lumbering wooden press for papers, with large glass doors, and a 
green curtain inside ; a pretty useless thing for him, for he had no papers to put in 
it ; and as to his clothes, he carried them about with him, and that wasn’t very 
hard work, either. Well, he had moved in all his furniture — it wasn’t quite a 
truck-full — and had sprinkled it about the room, so as to make the four chairs 
look as much like a dozen as possible, and was sitting down before the fire at night, 
drinking the first glass of two gallons of whiskey he had ordered on credit, 
wondering whether it would ever be paid for, and if so, m how many years’ time, 
when his eyes encountered the glass doors of the wooden press. ‘Ah’ savs he. 
‘ If I hadn’t been obliged to take that ugly article at the old broker’s valuation, I 
might have got something comfortable for the money. I ’ll tell you what it is, old 
fellow,’ he said, speaking aloud to the press, having nothing else to speak to : ‘ li 
it wouldn’t cost more to break up your old carcase, than it would ever be worth 


A Ghost open to Argument. 


m 

afterwards, I *d have a fire out of you in less than no time.* He had hardly 
sj-oken the words, when a sound resembling a faint groan, appeared to issue from 
tlie interior of the case. It startled him at first, but thinking, on a moment’s 
reflection, that it must be some young fellow in the next chamber, who had beet 
dining out, he put his feet on the fender, and raised the poker to stir the fire. At 
that moment, the sound was repeated : and one of the glass doors slowly opening, 
disclosed a pale and emaciated figure ift soiled and worn apparel, standing erect 
in the press. The figure was tall and thin, and the countenance expressive of care 
and anxiety ; but there was something in the hue of the skin, and gaunt and 
unearthly appearance of the whole |bnn, which no being of this world was ever 
seen to wear. ‘Who are you said the new tenant, turning very pale : poising 
the poker in his hand, however, and taking a very decent aim at the countenance 
of the figure. ‘ Who are you } ’ ‘ Don’t throw that poker at me,’ replied the 

form ; ‘ If you hurled it with ever so sure an aim, it would pass through me, 
without resistance, and expend its force on the wood behind. I am a spirit.’ 
‘And, pray, what do you want here }' faltered the tenant. ‘ In this room,’ replied 
the apparition, ‘ my wordly ruin was worked, and I and my children beggared. 
In this press, the papers in a long, long suit, which accumulated for years, were 
deposited. In this room, when I had died of grief, and long-deferred hope, two 
wily harpies divided the wealth for which I had contested during a wretched 
existence, and of which, at last, not one farthing was left for my unhappy descend- 
ants. I terrified them from the spot, and since that day have prowled by night — 
the only period at which I can re-visit the earth — about the scences of my long- 
protracted misery. This apartment is mine : leave it to me.’ ‘ If you insist upon 
making your appearance here,’ said the tenant, who had had time to collect his 
presence of mind during this prosy statement of the ghost’s, ‘I shall give up 
possession with the greatest pleasure ; but I should like to ask you one question, 
if you will allow me,’ ‘ Say on,’ said the apparition, sternly. ‘Well,’ said the 
tenant, ‘ I don’t apply the obseiwation personally to you, because it is equally 
applicable to most of the ghosts I ever heard of ; but it does appear to me some- 
what inconsistent, that when you have an opportunity of visiting the fairest spots 
of earth — for I suppose space is nothing to you — you should always return exactly 
to the very places where you have been most miserable.’ ‘ Egad, that’s very true ; 
I never thought of that before,’ said the ghost. ‘ You see, sir,’ pursued the tenant 
‘ this is a veiy uncomfortable room. From the appearance of that press, I should 
be disposed to say that it is not wholly free from bugs ; and I really think you might 
find much more comfortable quarters : to say nothing of the climate of London, 
which is extremely disagreeable.’ ‘ You are very right, sir,’ said the ghost, 
politely, ‘ it never struck me till now ; I ’ll try change of air directly.’ In 
fact, he began to vanish as he spoke ; his legs, indeed, had quite disappeared. 
‘And if, sir,’ said the tenant, calling after him, ‘if you would have the goodness 
to suggest to the other ladies and gentlemen who are now engaged in haunting 
old empty houses, that they might be much more comfortable elsewhere, you will 
confer a very great benefit on society.’ ‘ I will,’ replied the ghost ; ‘ we must be 
dull fellows, very dull fellows, indeed ; I can’t imagine how we can have been so 
stupid.’ With these words, the spirit disappeared; and what is rather remarkable,” 
added the old man, with a shrewd look round the table, “ he never came back 
again.” 

“ That ain’t bad, if it’s true,” said the man in the Mosaic stud^ fighting a 
fresh cigar. 

“ If!^' exclaimed the old man, with a look of excessive contempt. “I suppose,” 
he added, turning to Lowten, “ he ’ll say next, that my story about the queer client 
we ha'^, when I was in an attorney’s office, is not true, either — I shouldn’t wonder.” 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ I shan’t venture to say anything at all about it, seeing that I never hear'l the 
story,” observed the owner of the Mosaic decorations. 

“ I wish you would repeat it, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Ah, do,” said Lowten, “ nobody has heard it but me, and I have nearly 
forgotten it.” 

The old man looked round the table, and leered more horribly than ever, as if 
in triumph, at the attention which was depicted in every face. Then rubbing his 
chin with his hand, and looking up to the ceiling as if to recal the circumstances 
to his memory, he began as follows : 

THE OLD man’s TALE ABOUT THE QUEER CLIENT. 

It matters little,” said the old man, “ where, or how, I picked up this brief 
histoiy. If I were to relate it in the order in which it reached me, I should 
commence in the middle, and when I had airived at the conclusion, go back for a 
beginning. It is enough for me to say that some of its circumstances passed before 
my own eyes. For the remainder I know them to have happened, and there are 
some persons yet living, who will remember them but too well. 

“In the Borough High Street, near Saint George’s Church, and on the same 
side of the way, stands, as most people know, the smallest of our debtors’ prisons, 
the Marshalsea. Although in later times it has been a very different place from the 
sink of filth and dirt it once was, even its improved condition holds out but little 
temptation to the extravagant, or consolation to the improvident. The condemned 
felon has as good a yard for air and exercise in Newgate, as the insolvent debtor 
in the Marshalsea Prison.* 

“ It may be my fancy, or it may be that I cannot separate the place from the old 
recollections associated with it, but this part of London I cannot bear. The street 
is broad, the shops are spacious, the noise of passing vehicles, the footsteps of a 
perpetual stream of people — all the busy sounds of traffic, resound in it from 
morn to midnight, but the streets around a?e mean and close ; poverty and 
debauchery lie festering in the crowded alleys ; want and misfortune are pent up 
in the narrow prison ; an air of gldom and dreariness seems, in my eyes at least, 
to hang about the scene, and to impart to it a squalid and sickly hue. 

“ Many eyes, that have long since been closed in the giave, have looked round 
upon that scene lightly enough, when entering the gate of the old Marshalsea 
Prison for the first time : for despair seldom comes with the first severe shock of 
misfortune. A man has confidence in untried friends, he remembers the many 
offers of service so freely made by his boon companions when he wanted them 
not ; he has hope — the hope of happy inexperience — and however he may bend 
beneath the first shock, it springs up in his bosom, and flourishes there for a brief 
space, until it droops beneath the blight of disappointment and neglect. How 
soon have those same eyes, deeply sunken in the head, glared from faces wasted 
with famine, and sallow from confinement, in days when it was no figure of 
speech to say that debtors rotted in prison, with no hope of release, and no 
prospect of liberty ! The atrocity in its full extent no longer exists, but there is 
enough of it left to give rise to occurrences that make the heart bleed. 

“ Twenty years ago, that pavement was worn with the footsteps of a mothei 
and child, who, day by day, so surely as the morning came, presented themselves 
at the prison gate ; often after a night of restless misery and anxious thoughts, 
were they there, a full hour too soon, and then the young mother turning meekly 
away, would lead the child to the old bridge, and raising him in her arras to show 
him the glistening water, tinted with the light of the morning’s sun, and stiiring 
* Better. But this is past, ir, a bettor ape. and the prison exists no longer. 


Bereavements, 


HI 

mth all the bustling preparations for business and pleasure that the river pre- 
SCTted at that early hour, endeavour to interest his thoughts in the objects before 
him. But she would quickly set him down, and hiding her face in her shawl, 
give vent to the tears that blinded her ; for no expression of interest or amusement 
lighted up his thin and sickly face. His recollections were few enough, but they 
were all of one kind : all connected with the poverty and miseiy of his parents. 
Hour after hour had he sat on his mother’s knee, and with childish sympathy 
watched the tears that stole down her face, and then crept quieth'^ away into some 
dark comer, and sobbed himself to sleep. The hard realities of the world, witli 
many of its worst privations — hunger and thirst, and cold and want — had all come 
home to him, from the first dawings of reason ; and though the form of child- 
hood was there, its light heart, it meny laugh, and sparkling eyes, were wanting. 

“ The father and mother looked on upon this, and upon each other, with 
thoughts of agony they dared not breathe in words. The healthy, strong-made 
man, who could have borne almost any fatigue of active exertion, was wasting 
beneath the close confinement and unhealthy atmosphere of a crowded prison. 
The slight and delicate woman was sinking beneath the combined effects of bodily 
and mental illness. The child’s young heart was breaking. 

“ Winter came, and with it weeks of cold and heavy rain. The poor girl had 
removed to a -wretched apartment close to the spot of her husband’s imprisonment ; 
and though the change had been rendered necessaiy by their increasing poverty, 
she was happier now, for she was nearer him. For two months, she and her little 
companion watched the opening of the gate as usual. One day she failed to come, 
for the first time. Another morning arrived, and she came alone. The child 
was dead. 

“ They little know, who coldly talk of the poor man’s bereavements, as a happy 
release from pain to the departed, and a merciful relief from expense to the sur- 
vivor — they little know, I say, what the agony of those bereavements is. A silent 
look of affection and regard when all other eyes are turned coldly away — the con- 
sciousness that we possess the sympathy and affection of one being when all others 
have deserted us — is a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no 
wealth could purchase, or power bestow. The child had sat at his parents’ feet 
for hours together, with his little hands patiently folded in each other, and his 
thin wan face raised towards them. They had seen him pine away, from day to 
day ; and though his brief existence had been a joyless one, and he was now 
removed to that peace and rest which, child as he was, he had never known in 
this world, they were his parents, and his loss sunk deep into their souls. 

“ It was plain to those who looked upon the mother’s altered face, that death 
must soon close the scene of her adversity and trial. Her husband’s fellow- 
prisoners shrunk from obtruding on his grief and miser)', and left to himself alone, 
the small room he had previously occupied in common with two companions. She 
shared it with him : and lingering on without pain, but without hope, her life 
ebbed slowly away. 

“ She had fainted one evening in her husband’s arms, and he had borne her to 
the open window, to revive her with the air, when the light of the moon falling 
full upon her face, shewed him a change upon her features, which made him 
stagger beneath her weight, like a helpless infant. 

“ ‘ Set me down, George,’ she said faintly. He did so, and seating himself 
beside her, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears. 

“ ‘ It is very hard to leave you, George,’ she said, ‘ but it is God’s will, and you 
must bear it for my sake. Oh ! how I thank Him for having taken our boy ! He 
is happy, and in Heaven now. What would he have done here, without bis 
mother ! ’ 


178 


The Pickwick Club, 


“ ‘ You shall not die, Mary, you shall not die ; ’ said the husband, starting up. 
He paced huiriedly to and fro, striking his head with his clenched fists ; then 
reseating himself beside her, and supporting her in his anns, added more calmly, 

‘ Rouse yourself, my dear girl. Pray, pray do. You will revive yet.’ 

“‘Never again, George; never again,’ said the dying woman. ‘Let them 
lay me by my poor boy now, but promise me, that if ever you leave this dreadful 
place, and should grow rich, you will have us removed to some quiet counti-y 
churchyard, a long, long way off — very far from here — where we can rest in peace. 
Dear George, promise me you will.’ 

“ ‘ I do, I do,’ said the man, throwing himself passionately on his knees before 
her. ‘ Speak to me, Mary, another word ; one look — but one ! ’ 

“ He ceased to speak : for the arm that clasped his neck, grew stiff and heavy. 
A deep sigh escaped from the wasted form before him ; the lips moved, and a 
smile played upon the face ; but the lips were pallid, and the smile faded into a 
rigid and ghastly stare. He was alone in the world. 

“ That night, in the silence and desolation of his miserable room, the wretched 
man knelt down by the dead body of his wife, and called on God to witness a 
terrible oath, that from that hour, he devoted himself to revenge her death and 
that of his child ; that thenceforth to the last moment of his life, his whole 
energies should be directed to this one object ; that his revenge should be pro- 
tracted and terrible ; that his hatred should be undying and inextinguishable ; and 
should hunt its object through the world. 

“ The deepest despair, and passion scarcely human, had made such fierce 
ravages on his face and form, in that one night, that his companions in mis- 
fortune shrunk affrighted from him as he passed by. Plis ey^s were bloodshot 
and heavy, his face a deadly white, and his body bent as if with age. He had 
bitten his under lip nearly through in the violence of his mental suffering, and the 
blood which had flowed from the wound had trickled down his chin, and stained 
his shirt and neckerchief. No tear, or sound of complaint escaped him : but the 
unsettled look, and disordered haste with which he paced up and down the yard, 
denoted the fever which was burning within. 

“ It was necessary that his wife’s body should be removed from the prison, 
without delay. He received the communication with perfect calmness, and acqui- 
esced in its propriety. Nearly all the inmates of the prison had assembled to 
witness its removal ; they fell back on either side when the widower appeared ; he 
walked hurriedly forward, and stationed himself, alone, in a little railed area close 
to the lodge gate, from whence the crowd, with an instinctive feeling of delicacy, 
had retired. The rude coffin was borne slowly foi-ward on men’s shoulders. A 
dead silence pervaded the throng, broken only by the audible lamentations of the 
women, and the shuffling steps of the bearers on the stone pavement. They 
reached the spot where the bereaved husband stood : and stopped. He laid his 
hand upon the coffin, and mechanically adjusting the pall with which it was 
covered, motioned them onward. The turnkeys in the prison lobby took off their 
hats as it passed through, and in another moment the heavy gate closed behind it. 
He looked vacantly upon the crowd, and fell heavily to the ground. 

“ Although for many weeks after this, he was watched, night and day, in the 
wildest ravings of fever, neither the consciousness of his loss, nor the recollection 
of the vow he had made, ever left him for a moment. Scenes changed before his 
eyes, place succeeded place, and event followed event, in all the hurry of delirium ; 
but they were all connected in some way with the great object of his mind. He 
was saving over a boundless expanse of sea, with a blood-red sky above, and the 
angry waters, lashed into fury beneath, boiling and eddying up, on every side. 
There was another vessel before them, toiling and labouring in the howling storm: 


Fevered Fisions. 


^19 


her canvas fluttering in ribbons from the mast, and her deck thronged with figures 
who were lashed to the sides, over which huge waves every instant burst, sweeping 
away some devoted creatures into the foaming sea. Onward they bore, amidst 
the roaring mass of water, with a speed and force which nothing could resist ; and 
striking the stern of the foremost vessel, crushed her, beneath their keel. From 
the huge whirlpool which the sinking wreck occasioned, arose a shriek so 
loud and shrill — the death-cry of a hundred drowning creatures, blended into 
one fierce yell — that it rung far above the war-cry of the elements, and echoed, 
and re-echoed till it seemed to pierce air, sky, and ocean. But what was that — 
that old gi'ey-head that rose above the water’s surface, and with looks of agony, 
and screams for aid, buffeted with the waves ! One look, and he had sprung 
from the vessel’s side, and with vigorous strokes was swimming towards it. He 
reached it ; he was close upon it. They were his features. The old man saw him 
coming, and vainly strove to elude his grasp. But he clasped him tight, and 
dragged him beneath the water. Down, down with him, fifty fathoms down ; his 
struggles grew fainter and fainter, until they wholly ceased. He was dead ; he 
had killed him, and had kept his oath. 

“ He was traversing the scorching sands of a mighty desert, barefoot and alone. 
The sand choked and blinded him ; its fine thin grains entered the very pores of 
his skin, and irritated him almost to madness. Gigantic masses of the same mate- 
rial, earned forward by the wind, and shone through, by the burning sun, stalked 
in the distance like pillars of living fire. The bones of men, who had perished in 
the dreary waste, lay scattered at his feet ; a fearful light fell on everything around; 
so far as the eye could reach, nothing but objects of dread and horror presented 
themselves. Vainly striving to utter a cry of terror, with his tongue cleaving to 
his mouth, he rushed madly forward. Armed with supernatural strength, he 
waded through the sand, until exhausted with fatigue and thirst, he fell senseless 
on the earth. What fragrant coolness revived him ; what gushing sound was 
that } Water ! It was indeed a well ; and the clear fresh stream was running at 
hi^ feet. He drank deeply of it, and throwing his aching limbs upon the bank, 
sunk into a delicious trance. The sound of approaching footsteps roused him. 
An old grey-headed man tottered forward to slake his burning thirst. It was he 
again ! He wound his arms round the old man’s body, and held him back. He 
struggled, and shrieked for water, for but one drop of water to save his life ! But 
he held the old man firmly, and watched his agonies with greedy eyes ; and when 
his lixeless head fell forward on his bosom, he roUed the corpse from him with 
his feet. 

“ When the fever left him, and consciousness returned, he awoke to find himself 
rich and free : to hear that the parent who would have let him die in gaol — would ! 
who had let those who were far dearer to him than his own existence, die of want 
and sickness of heart that medicine cannot cure — had been found dead on his bed 
of down. He had had all the heart to leave his son a beggar, but proud even 
of his health and strength, had put off the act till it was too late, and now might 
gnash his teeth in the other world, at the thought of the wealth his remissness had 
left him. He awoke to this, and he awoke to more. To recollect the purpose for 
which he lived, and to remember that his enemy was his wife’s own father — the 
man who had cast him into prison, and who, when his daughter and her child 
sued at his feet for mercy, had spurned them from his door. Oh, how he cursed 
the weakness that prevented him from being up, and active, in his scheme of 
vengeance ! 

‘•He caused himself to be carried from the scene of his loss and misery, and 
comeyed to a quiet 'residence on the sea-coast; not in the hope of recovtring 
his peace of mind or happiness, for both were fled for ever ; but to restore his 


i8o 


The Pickwick Club. 


prostrate energies, and meditate on his darling object. And here, some evil spirit 
cast in his way the opportunity for his first, most hoirible revenge. 

“ It was summer time ; and wrapped in his gloomy thoughts, he would issue 
from his solitary lodgings early in the evening, and wandering along a narrow path 
beneath the clifis, to a wild and lonely spot that had struck his fancy in his ram- 
blings, seat himself on some fallen fragment of the rock, and burying Ids face in 
his hands, remain there for hours — sometimes until night had completely closed 
in, and the long shadows of the frowning clifis above his head, cast a thick black 
darkness on every object near him. 

“ lie was seated here, one calm evening in his old position, now and then 
raising his head to watch the flight of a sea-gull, or carry his eye along the glorious 
crimson path, which, commencing in the middle of the ocean, seemed to lead to 
its very verge where the sirn was setting, when the profound stillness of the spot 
was broken by a loud cry for help ; he listened, doubtful of his having heard 
aright, when the cry was repeated with even greater vehemence than before, and 
starting to his feet, he hastened in the direction whence it proceeded. 

“ The tale told itself at once : some scattered garments lay on the beach ; a 
human head was just visible above the waves at a little distance from the shore ; 
and an old man, wringing his hands in agony, was running to and fro, shrieldng 
for assistance. The invalid, whose strength was now surficiently restored, threw 
off his coat, and rushed towards the sea, with the intention of plunging in, and 
dragging the drowning man a-shore. 

“ ‘ Hasten here, sir, in God’s name ; help, help, sir, for the love of Heaven. He 
is my son, sir, my only son ! ’ said the old man, frantically, as he advanced to 
meet him. ‘ My only son, sir, and he is dying before his father’s eyes ! * 

“ At the first word the old man uttered, the stranger checked himself in his 
career, and, folding his arms, stood perfectly motionless. 

“ ‘ Great God ! ’ exclaimed the old man, recoiling. ‘ Heyling ! ’ 

The stranger smiled, and was silent. 

“ ‘ Heyling !’ said the old man, wildly : ‘ My boy, Heyling, my dear boy, look, 
look ! ’ gasping for breath, the miserable father pointed to the spot where the 
young man was struggling for life. 

“ ‘ Hark ! ’ said the old man. ‘ He cries once more. He is alive yet. Heyling, 
save him, save him ! ’ 

“The stranger smiled again, and remained immovable as a statue. 

“ ‘I have wronged you,’ shrieked the old man, falling on his knees, and clasping 
his hands together. ‘ Be revenged ; take my all, my life ; cast me into the water 
at your feet, and, if human nature can repress a struggle, I will die, without stir- 
ring hand or foot. Do it, Pleyling, do it, but save my boy, he is so young, Heyling, 
so young to die ! ’ 

“ ‘ Listen,’ said the stranger, grasping the old man fiercely by the wrist : ‘ I will 
have life for life, and here is one. My child died, before his father’s eyes, a far 
more agonising and painful death than that young slanderer of his sister’s worth is 
meeting while I speak. You laughed — laughed in your daughter’s face, where 
death had already set his hand — at our sufferings, then. What think you of them 
now } See there, see there ! ’ 

“ As the stranger spoke, he pointed to the sea. A faint ciy died away upon its 
surface : the last powerful struggle of the dying man agitated the rippling waves 
for a few seconds : and the spot where he had gone down into his early grave, was 
nndistinguishabk from the surrounding water. 

«««««•««« 

“ Three years had elapsed, when a gentleman alighted from a private carriage 

the door of a London attorney, then well known as a man of no great nk ety in 


Revenge. iSi 

his p*ofer>sional c^ealings : and requested a private interview on business of import- 
ance. Although evidently not past the prime of life, his face was pale, haggard, 
and dejected ; and it did not require the acute perception of the man of business, 
VO discern at a glance, that disease or suffering had done more to work a change in 
his appearance, than the mere hand of time could have accomplished in twice the 
peiiod of his whole life. 

“ ‘ I wish you to undertake some legal business for me,’ said the stranger. 

“ The attorney bowed obsequiously, and glanced at a large packet which the 
gentleman carried in his hand. His visitor observed the look, and proceeded. 

“ ‘It is no common business,’ said he; ‘nor have these papers reached my 
hands without long trouble ar>d great expense.’ 

“ The attorney cast a still more anxious look at the packet : and his visitor, 
untying the string that bound it, disclosed a quantity of promissory notes, with 
copies of deeds, and other documents. 

“ ‘ Upon these papers,’ said the client, ‘the man whose name they bear, has 
raised, as you will see, large sums of money, for some years past. There was a 
tacit understanding between him and the men into whose hands they originally 
went — and from whom I have by degrees purchased the whole, for treble and 
quadruple their nominal value — that these loans should be from time to time 
renewed, until a given period had elapsed. Such an understanding is nowhere 
expressed. He has sustained many losses of late ; and these obligations accumu- 
lating upon him at once, would crush him to the earth.’ 

“ ‘ The whole amount is many thousands of pounds,’ said the attorney, looking 
over the papers. 

“ ‘ It is,’ said the client. 

“ ‘ What are we to do ?’ inquired the man of business. 

“ ‘ Do ! ’ replied the client, with sudden vehemence. ‘ Put every engine of the 
law in force, every trick that ingenuity can devise and rascality execute ; fair means 
and foul ; the open oppression of the law, aided by all the craft of its most in- 
genious practitioners. I would have him die a harassing and lingering death. 
Ruin him, seize and sell his lands and goods, drive him from house and home, and 
drag him forth a beggar in his old age, to die in a common gaol.’ 

“ ‘ But the costs, my dear sir, the costs of all this,’ reasoned the attorney, when 
he had recovered from his momentary surprise. ‘ If the defendant be a man of 
straw, who is to pay the costs, sir ? ’ 

“ ‘Name any sum,’ said the stranger, his hand trembling so violently with ex- 
citement, that he could scarcely hold the pen he seized as he spoke ; ‘ Any sum, 
and it is yours. Don’t be afraid to name it, man. I shall not thinlc it dear, if you 
gain my object.’ 

“ The attorney named a large sum, at hazard, as the advance he should require 
to secure himself against the possibility of loss ; but more with the view of ascer- 
taining how far his client was really disposed to go, than with any idea that he 
would comply with the demand. The stranger wrote a cheque upon his banker, 
for the whole amount, and left him. 

“ The draft was duly honoured, and the attorney, finding that his strange client 
might be safely relied upon, commenced his work in earnest. For more than two 
years aftei-wards, Mr. Heyling would sit whole days together, in the office, poring 
over the papers as they accumulated, and reading again and again, his eyes 
gleaming with joy, the letters of remonstrance, the prayers for a little delay, the 
representations of the certain ruin in which the opposite party must be involved, 
which poured in, as suit after suit, and process after process, was commenced. To 
all applications for a brief indulgence, there was but one reply — the money must 
be paid. Land, house, furniture, each in its turn, was taken under some one of 


The Pickwick Club. 


r8i 


the numerous executions which were issued ; and the old man himself would have 
been immured in prison had he not escaped the vigilance of the officers, and fled. 

“ The implacable animosity of Heyling, so far from being satiated by the success 
of his persecution, increased a hundred-fold with the ruin he inflicted. On being 
informed of the old man’s flight, his fury was unbounded. He gnashed his teeth 
with rage, tore the hair from his head, and assailed with horrid imprecations the 
men who had been entrusted with the writ. He was only restored to comparative 
calmness by repeated assurances of the certainty of discovering the fugitive. 
Agents were sent in quest of him, in all directions ; every stratagem that could be 
invented was resorted to, for the purpose of discovering his place of retreat ; but 
it was all in vain. Half a year had passed over, and he was still undiscovered. 

“At length, late one night, Heyling, of whom nothing had been seen for many 
■weeks before, appeared at his attorney’s private residence, and sent up word that 
a gentleman wished to see him instantly. Before the attorney, who had recog- 
nised his voice from above stairs, could order the servant to admit him, he had 
rushed up the staircase, and entered the drawing-room pale and breathless. Having 
closed the door, to prevent being overheard, he sunk into a chair, and said, in a 
low voice : 

“ ‘ Hush ! I have found him at last.’ 

“ ‘ No !’ said the attorney. ‘ Well done, my dear sir ; well done.’ 

“ ‘ He lies concealed in a wretched lodging in Camden Town,’ said Heyling. 

‘ Perhaps it is as well, we did lose sight of him, for he has been living alone there, 
in the most abject misery, all the time, and he is poor — very poor.’ 

“ ‘ Ver)^ good,’ said the attorney. ‘ You will have the caption made to-morrow, 
of course V 

“ ‘ Yes,’ replied Heyling. ‘ Stay ! No ! The next day. You are surprised 
-it my wishing to postpone it,’ he added, -wflth a ghastly smile ; ‘ but I had for- 
gotten. The next day is an anniversary in his life : let it be done then.’ 

“ ‘ A^ery good,’ said the attorney. ‘Will you write down instructions for the • 
officer ?’ 

“ ‘ No; let him meet me here, at eight in the evening, and I will accompany 
him, myself.’ 

They met on the appointed night, and, hiring a hackney coach, directed the 
driver to stop at that corner of the old Pancras Road, at which stands the parish 
workhouse. By the time they alighted there, it was quite dark ; and, proceeding 
Dy the dead wall in front of the Veterinary Hospital, they entered a small by- 
street, which is, or was at that time, called Little College Street, and which, what- 
ever it may be now, was in those days a desolate place enough, surrounded by 
little else than fields and ditches. 

“ Haring drawn the travelling cap he had on half over his face, and muffled 
himself in his cloak, Heyling stopped before the meanest-looking house in the 
street, and knocked gently at the door. It was at once opened by a woman, who 
dropped a curtesy of reco^iition, and Heyling, whispering the officer to remain 
below, crept gently up stairs, and, opening the door of the front room, entered at 
once. 

“ The object of his search and his unrelenting animosity, now a decrepid old 
man, was seated at a bare deal table, on which stood a miserable candle. He 
started on the entrance of the stranger, and rose feebly to his feet. 

“ ‘What new. what now ?’ said the old man. ‘ What fresh misery^ is this ? 
WTiat do you want here ? ’ 

“ ‘A word with replied Heyling. As he spoke, he seated himself at the 
other end of the table, and, throwing off his cloak and cap, disclose! his features. 

“ The old inan seemed instantly deprived of the power of speech. He fell back* 


A Fresh Departure. 183 


ward in his chair, and, clasping his hands together, gazed on the apparition with 
a mingled look of abhorrence and fear. 

“ ‘ This day six years,’ said Heyling, ‘ I claimed the life you owed me for my 
child’s. Beside the lifeless form of your daughter, old man, I swore to live a life 
of revenge. I have never swerved from my purpose for a moment’s space ; but if 
I had, one thought of her uncomplaining, suffering look, as she drooped away, or 
of the starving face of our innocent "child, would have nerved me to my task. My 
first act of requital you well remember : this is my last.’ 

“ The old man shivered^ and his hands dropped powerless by his side. 

“ ‘ I leave England to-morrow,’ said Heyling, after a moment’s pause. ‘ To-night 
I consign you to the living death to which you devoted her — a hopeless prison — ’ 

“ He raised his eyes to the old man’s countenance, and paused. He lifted the 
light to his face, set it gently down, and left the apartment. 

“ ‘ You had better see to the old man,’ he said to the woman, as he opened the 
door, and motioned the officer to follow him into the street. ‘ I think he is ill.’ 
The woman closed the door, ran hastily up stairs, and found him lifeless. 

********* 

“ Beneath a plain grave-stone, in one of the most peaceful and secluded church- 
yards in Kent, where wild flowers mingle with the grass, and the soft landscape 
around forms the fairest spot in the garden of England, lie the bones of the young 
mother and her gentle child. But the ashes of the father do not mingle with 
theirs ; nor, from that night forward, did the attorney ever gain the remotest clue 
to the subsequent history of his queer client.” 

As the old man concluded his tale, he advanced to a peg in one comer, and 
taking down his hat and coat, put them on with great deliberation ; and, without 
saying another word, walked slowly away. As the gentleman with the Mosaic 
studs had fallen asleep, and the major part of the company were deeply occupied 
in the humorous process of dropping melted tallow-grease into his brandy and 
water, Mr. Pickwick departed unnoticed, and having settled his own score, and 
that of Mr. Weller, issued forth, in company with that gentleman, from beneath 
the portal of the Magpie and Stump. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

MR. PICKWICK JOURNEYS TO IPSWICH, AND MEETS WITH A ROMANTIC ADVEN- 
TURE WITH A MIDDLE-AGED LADY IN YELLOW CURL PAPERS. 

That ’ere your governor’s luggage, Sammy ? ” inquired Mr. Weller of his affec- 
tionate son, as he entered the yard of the Bull inn, Whitechapel, with a travelling 
bag and a small portmanteau. 

“ You might ha’ made a worser guess than that, old feller,” replied Mr. Weller 
the younger, setting down his burden in the yard, and sitting himself down upon 
it afterwards. “ The Governor hisself ’ll be down here presently.” 

“ He’s a cabbin’ it, I suppose .? ” said the father. 

“ Yes, he’s a havin’ two mile o’ danger at eight-pence,” responded the son. 
** How’s mother-in-law this momin’ } ” 

“Queer, Sammy, queer,^’ replied the elder Mr. Weller, with impressive gravity. 
“ She’s been gettin’ rayther in the Methodistical order lately, Sammy ; and she is 
uncommon pious, ) > be sure. She’s too good a creetur for me, Sammy. I feel I 
don’t deserve her.” % 


The Pickwick CLuh. 


184 

“Ah,” said Mr. Samuel, “ that’s wery self-demdn’ o’ you.” 

“ Weiy,” replied his parent, with a sigh. “ She’s got hold o’ some imvention 
for grown-up people being bora again, Sammy ; the new birth, I thinks they calls 
it. I should w^ery much like to see that system in haction, Sammy. I should 
wery much like to see your mother-in-law bora again. Wouldn’t I put her out to 
nurse ! ” 

“ What do you think them women does t’other day,” continued Mr. Weller, 
after a short pause, during wJaich he had significantly struck the side of his nose 
with his fore-finger some half-dozen times. “ What do you think they does, 
t’other day, Sammy .? ” 

“ Don’t know,” replied Sam, “ w’hat } ” 

“ Goes and gets up a grand tea drinkin’ for a feller they calls their shepherd,” 
said Mr. Weller. “ I was a standing starin’ in at the pictur shop down at our 
place, when I sees a little bill about it ; ‘ tickets half-a-crown. All applications to 
be made to the committee. Secretary, Mrs. Weller ;’ and when I got home there 
was tlie committee a sittin’ in our back parlour. Fourteen women ; I wish you 
could ha’ heard ’em, Sammy. There they was, a passin’ resolutions, and wotin’ 
supplies, and all sorts o’ games. Well, what with your mother-in-law a worrying 
me to go, and what with my looking for’ard to seein’ some queer starts if I did, I 
put my name down for a ticket ; at six o’clock on the Friday evenin’ I dresses my- 
self out wery smart, and off I goes with the old ’ooman, and up we walks into a 
fust floor where there was tea things for thirty, and a whole lot o’ w’omen as begins 
whisperin’ to one another, and lookin’ at me, as if they’d never seen a rayther 
stout gen’lm’n of eight-and-fifty afore. By and bye, there comes a great bustle 
down stairs, and a lanky chap with a red nose and a white neckcloth rushes up, and 
sings out, ‘ Here’s the shepherd a coming to wisit his Faithful flock ; ’ and in comes 
a fat chap in black, vith a great white face, a smilin’ avay like clockwork. Such 
goin’s on, Sammy ! ‘ The kiss of peace,’ says the shepherd ; and then he kissed 

the women all round, and ven he’d done, the man vith the red nose began. I was 
just a thinkin’ whether I hadn’t better begin too — ’specially as there was a wery 
nice lady a sittin’ next me — ven in comes the tea, and your mother-in-law, as had 
been makin’ the kettle bile down stairs. At it they went, tooth and nail. Such 
a precious loud hymn, Sammy, while the tea was a brewing ; such a grace, such 
eaiin’ and drinkin’ ! I wish you could ha’ seen the shepherd walkin’ into the 
ham and muffins. I never see such a chap to eat and drink ; never. The red- 
nosed man wara’t by no means the sort of person you’d like to grub by contract, 
but he was nothin’ to the shepherd. Well; arter the tea was over, they sang 
another h3’’mn, and then the shenherd began to preach : and wery well he did it, 
considerin’ how heavy them muffins must have lied on his chest. Presently he 
pulls up, all of a sudden, and hollers out ‘ Where is the sinner ; where is the 
mis’rable sinner "i ’ Upon which, all the w'omen looked at me, and began to groan 
as if they was a dying. I thought it was rather sing’ler, but hows’ever, I says 
nothing. Presently he pulls up again, and lookin’ wery hard at me, says, ‘ Where 
is the sinner ; where is the mis’rable sinner } ’ and all the women groans again, 
ten times louder than afore. I got rather wild at this, so I takes a step or two for- 
’ard and says, ‘ My friend,’ says I, ‘ did you apply that ’ere obserwation to me ’ 
’Stead of begging my pardon as any gen’lm’n would ha’ done, he got more 
abusive than ever: called me a wessel, Sammy — a wessel of wrath — and all sorts 
o’ names. So my blood being reg’larly up, I first give him tw’O or tluee for him- 
self, and then two or three more to hand over to the man wnth the red nose, and 
walked off. I wish you could ha’ heard how the women screamed, Sammy, ven 

they picked up the shepherd from under the table Hallo ! here’s the gc vemor, 

the size of life.” 


0 


Anotner Passenger. 185 

As Mr. Weller spoke, Mr. Pickwick dismounted from a cab, and entered the 

yard. 

“ Fine momin’ sir,” said Mr. Weller senior. 

“ Beautiful indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Beautiful indeed,” echoed a red-haired man with an inquisitive nose and blu 
spectacles, who had unpacked himself from a cab at tlie same moment as Mr. 
Pickwick. “ Going to Ipswich, sir ?” 

“ I am,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Extraordinary coincidence. So am I.” 

Mr. Pickwick bowed. 

“ Going outside ?” said the red-haired man. 

Mr. Pickwick bowed again. 

“ Bless my soul, how remarkable — I am going outside, too,” said the red-haired 
man : “ we are positively going together.” And the red-haired man, who was an 
important-looking, sharp-nosed, mysterious-spoken personage, with a bird-like 
habit of giving his head a jerk every time he said anything, smiled as if he had 
made one of the strangest discoveries that ever fell to the lot of human wisdom. 

“ I am happy in the prospect of your company, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Ah,” said the new-comer, “ it’s a good thing for both of us, isn’t it } Com- 
pany, you see — company is — is — it’s a very different thing from solitude — ain’t it .?” 

“ There’s no denying that ’ere,” said Mr. Weller, joining in the conversation, 
with an affable smile. “ That’s what I call a self-evident proposition, as the 
dog’s-meat man said, when the house-maid told him he wam’t a gentleman.” 

“ Ah,” said the red-haired man, suiweying Mr. Weller from head to foot with a 
supercilious look. “ Friend of yours, sir 

“ Not exactly a friend,” replied Mr. Pickwick in a low tone. “ The fact is, he 
is my servant, but I allow him to take a good many liberties ; for, between our- 
selves, I flatter myself he is an original, and I am rather proud of him.” 

“ Ah,” said the red-haired man, “ that, you see, is a matter of taste. I am not 
fond of anything original ; I don’t like it ; don’t see the necessity for it. What’s 
your name, sir ” 

“ Here is my card, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, much amused by the abruptness 
of the question, and the singular manner of the stranger. 

“Ah,” said the red-haired man, placing the card in his pocket-book, “Pick- 
wick ; very good. I like to know a man’s name, it saves so much trouble. That’s 
my card, sir, Magnus, you will perceive, sir — Magnus is my name. It’s rather a 
good name, I think, sir ? ” 

“A very good name, indeed,” said Mr. Pickwick, wholly unable to repress 
a smile. 

“ Yes, I think it is,” resumed Mr. Magnus. “There’s a good name before it 
too, you will observe. Permit me, sir — if you hold the card a little slanting, this 
way, you catch the light upon the up-stroke. There — Peter Magnus — sounds 
well, I think, sir.” 

“ Very,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Curious circumstmce about those initials, sir,” said Mr. Magnus. “You will 
observe — P. M. — post meridian. In hasty notes to intimate acquaintance, I some- 
times sign myself ‘Afternoon.’ It amuses my friends very much, Mr. Pickwick.” 

“ It is calculated to afford them the highest gratification, I should conceive,” 
said Mr. Pickwick, rather envying the ease with which Mr. Alagnus’s friends were 
entertained. 

Now, gen’lm’n,” said the hostler, “ coach is ready, if you please.” 

“ Is all my luggage in ?” inquired Mr. Magnus. 

** All right, sir.” 


1 86 


The Pickwick Cluh, 


I s the red bag in ?” 

“ All right, sir.” 

“ And the striped bag ?” 

“ Fore boot, sir.” 

“ And the brown-paper parcel ?** 

“ Under the seat, sir.” 

And the leather hat-box ?** 

“ They’re all in, sir.” 

“ Now, will you get up ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Excuse me,” replied Magnus, standing on the wheel. “Excuse me, Mr. 
Pickwick. I cannot consent to get up, in this state of uncertainty. I am quite 
satisfied from that man’s manner, that that leather hat-box is not in.” 

The solemn protestations of the hostler being wholly unavailing, the leather 
hat-box was obliged to be raked up from the lowest depth of the boot, to satisfy 
him that it had been safely packed ; and after he had been assured on this head, 
he felt a solemn presentiment, first, that the red bag was mislaid, and next that 
the striped bag had been stolen, and then that the brown-paper parcel “ had come 
untied.” At length when he had received ocular demonstration of the groundless 
nature of each and every of these suspicions, he consented to climb up to the roof 
of the coach, observing that now he had taken every thing off his mind, he felt 
quite comfortable and happy. 

“You’re given to nervousness, an’t you, sir.?” inquired Mr. Weller senior, 
eyeing the stranger askance, rs he mounted to his place. 

“ Yes ; I always am rather, about these little matters,” said the stranger, “but 
T am all right now — quite righv.” 

“ Well, that’s a blessin’,” said Mr. Weller. “ Sammy, help your master up to 
the box : t’other leg, sir, that’s it ; give us your hand, sir. Up with you. You 
was a lighter weight ^en you was a boy, sir.” 

“ True enough, that. Air. Weller,” said the breathless Air. Pickwick, good 
humouredly, as he took his seat on the box beside him. 

“ Jump up in front, Sammy,” said Air. Weller. “ Now Viliam, run ’em out. 
Take care o’ the archvay, gen’lm’n. ‘ Heads,’ as the pieman says. That’ll do, 
Viliam. Let ’em alone.” And away went the coach up Whitechapel, to the 
admiration of the whole population of that pretty-densely populated quarter. 

“ Not a wery nice neighbourhood this, sir,” said Sam, with a touch of the hat, 
which always preceded his entering into conversation with his master. 

“ It is not indeed, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the crowded and 
^thy street through which they were passing. 

“ It’s a wery remarkable circumstance, sir,” said Sam, “ that poverty and oysters 
always seems to go together.” 

“ I don’t understand you, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ What I mean, sir,” said Sam, “ is, that the poorer a place is, the greater call 
there seems to be for oysters. Look here, sir ; here’s a- oyster stall to every half- 
dozen houses. The street’s lined vith ’em. Blessed if don’t think that ven a man’s 
wery poor, he rushes out of his lodgings, and eats oysters in reg’lar desperation.” 

“ To be sure he does,” said Air. Weller senior; “ and it’s just the same vith 
pickled salmon ! ” 

“ Those are two very remarkable facts, which never occurred to me before,” 
said Air. Pickwick. “ The very first place we stop at. I’ll make a note of them.” 

By this time they had reached the turnpike at Alile End ; a juofound silence 
prevailed until they had got two or three miles further on, when Air. Weller senior, 
turning suddenly to Air. Pickwick, said : 

Wery queer life is a pike-keeper’s, sir.” 


i87 


At the Journey^ End. 

“ A what ? ” said ?>Ir. Pickwick. 

“ A pike-Keeper.” 

“ What do you mean by a pike-keeper ? ” inquired Mr. Peter Magnus. 

“The old ’un means a turnpike keepei, gen’lm’n,” observed Mr. Samuel 
Weller, in explanation. 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ I see. Yes ; very curious life. Very uncomfortable.” 

“They’re all on ’em men as has met \ith some disappointment in life,” said 
Mr. Weller senior. 

“ Ay, ay } ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Yes. Consequence of vich, they retires from the world, and shuts themselves 
up in pikes ; partly vith the view of being solitary, and partly to rewenge them- 
selves on mankind, by takin’ tolls.” 

“ Dear me,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ I never knew that before.” 

“Fact, sir,” said Mr. Weller; “if they was gen’lm’n you’d call ’em misan- 
thropes, but as it is, they only takes to pike-keepin’.” 

With such conversation, possessing the inestimable charm of blending amuse- 
ment with instruction, did Mr. Weller beguile the tediousness of the journey, 
during the greater part of the day. Topics of conversation were never wanting, 
for even when any pause occurred in Mr. Weller’s loquacity, it was abundantly 
supplied by the desire evinced by Mr. Magnus to make himself acquainted with 
the whole of the personal history of his fellow-travellers, and bis loudly-expressed 
anxiety at every stage, respecting the safety and well-being of the two bags, the 
leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel. 

In the main street of Ipswich, on the left-hand side of the way. a short distance 
after you have passed through the open space fronting the Tov i Hall, stands an 
inn known far and wide by the appellation of The Great White Horse, rendered 
the more conspicuous by a stone statue of some rampacious animal with flowing 
mane and tail, distantly resembling an insane cart-horse, which is elevated above 
the principal door. The Great White Horse is famous in the neighbourhood, in 
the same degree as a prize ox, or county paper-chronicled turnip, or unwieldy pig 
— for its enormous size. Never were such lab}Tinths of uncarpeted passages, such 
clusters of mouldy, ill-lighted rooms, such huge numbers of small dens for 
eating or sleeping in, beneath any one roof, as are collected together between the 
four walls of the Great White Horse at Ipswich. 

It was at the door of this overgrown tavern that the London coach stopped, at 
the same hour every evening ; and it was from this same London coach, that Mr. 
Pickwick, Sam Weller, and Mr. Peter Magnus dismounted, on the particular 
evening to which this chapter of our history bears reference. 

“ Do you stop here, sir.?” inquired Mr. Peter Magnus, when the striped bag, 
and the red bag, and the brown-paper parcel, and the leather hat-box, had all been 
deposited in the passage. “ Do you stop here, sir ? ” 

“ I do,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Dear me,” said Mr. Magnus, “ I never knew anything like these extraordinary 
coincidences. Why, I stop here too. I hope we dine together .? ” 

“With pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “I am not quite certain whether I 
have any friends here or not, though. Is there any gentleman of the name of 
Tupman here, waiter ? ” 

A corpulent man, with a fortnight’s napkin under his arm, and coeval stockings 
on his legs, slowly desisted from his occupation of staring down the street, on this 
question being put to him by Mr. Pickwick ; and, after minutely inspecting that 
gentleman’s appearance, from the crown of his hat to the lowest buttoii of his 
gaiters, replied emphatically : 

“ No.” 


i88 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Nor any gentleman of the name of Snodgrass ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“No!” 

“ Nor Winkle ? ” 

“No.” 

“ My friends have not arrived to-day, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ We will dinft 
alone, then. Shew us a private room, waiter.” 

On this request being preferred, the corpulent man condescended to order the 
boots to bring in the gentleman’s luggage ; and preceding them down a long dark 
passage, ushered them into a large badly-furnished apartment, with a dirty grate, 
in which a small fire was making a wretched attempt to be cheerful, but was fast 
sinking beneath the dispiriting influence of the place. After the lapse of an hour, 
a bit of fish and a steak were served up to the travellers, and when the dinner was 
cleared away, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Peter Magnus drew their chairs up to the 
fire, and having ordered a bottle of the worst possible port wine, at the highest 
possible price, for the good of the house, drank brandy and water for their own. 

Mr. Peter Magnus was naturally of a very communicative disposition, and the 
brandy and water operated with wonderful effect in warming into life the deepest 
hidden secrets of his bosom. After sundry accounts of himself, his family, his 
connexions, his friends, his jokes, his business, and his brothers (most talkative 
men have a great deal to say about their brothers), Mr. Peter Magnus took a blue 
view of Mr. Pickwick through his coloured spectacles for several minutes, and then 
said, with an air of modesty ; 

“And what do you think — what do you think, Mr. Pickwick — I have come 
down here for } ” 

“ Upon my word,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ it is wholly impossible for me to guess ; 
on business, perhaps.” 

“ Partly right, sir,” replied Mr. Peter Magnus, “ but partly wrong, at the same 
time : try again, Mr. Pickwick.” 

“ Really,” said Mr. Pickwick, “I must throw myself on your mercy, to tell me 
or not, as you may think best ; for I should never guess, if I were to try all night.” 

“Why, then, he — he — he!” said Mr. Peter Magnus, with a bashful titter, 
“ What should you think, Mr. Pickwick, if I had come down here, to make a 
proposal, sir, eh .? He — he — he ! ” 

“ Think ! That you are very hkely to succeed,” replied Mr. Pick^vick, with one 
of his beaming smiles. 

“Ah ! ” said Mr. Magnus. “ But do you really think so, Mr. Pickwick ? Do 
you, though .? ” 

, “ Certainly,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ No ; but you’re joking, though.” 

“ I am not, indeed.” 

“ Why, then,” said Mr. Magnus, “ to let you into a little secret, / think so too. 
I don’t mind telling you, Mr. Pickwick, although I’m dreadful jealous by nature — 
horrid — that the lady is in this house.” Here Mr. Magnus took off his spectacles, 
on purpose to wink, and then put them on again. 

“ That’s what you were running out of the room for, before dinner, then, so 
often,” said Mr. Pickwick, archly. 

“ Hush! Yes, you’re right, that was it ; not such a fool as to see her, though.” 

“ No ; wouldn’t do, you know, after having just come off a journey. Wait till 
to-morrow, sir; double the chance then. Mr. Pickwick, sir, there is a suit ot 
clothes in that bag, and a hat in that box, which I expect, in the effect they will 
produce, will be invaluable to me, sir.” 

“Indeed!” (aid Mr. Pickwick. 


189 


Retiring to Rest. 

Yes ; you mast have obsei-ved my anxiety about them to-day. I do not believe 
that such another suit of clothes, and such a hat, could be bought for money, 
Mr. Pickwick.” 

Mr. Pickwick congratulated the fortunate owner of the irresistible garments, on 
their acquisition ; and Mr. Peter Magnus remained for a few moments apparently 
absorbed in contemplation. 

“ She’s a fine creature,” said Mr. Magnus. 

“ Is she .^” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Very,” said Mr. Magnus, “very. She lives about twenty miles from here, 
Mr. Pickwick. I heard she would be here to-night and all to-morrow forenoon, 
and came down to seize the opportunity. I think an inn is a good sort of a place 
to propose to a single woman in, Mr. Piclcwick. She is more likely to feel the 
loneliness of her situation in travelling, perhaps, than she would be at home. 
What do you think, Mr. Pickwick 

“ I think it veiy probable,” replied that gentleman. 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mr. Peter Magnus, “but I am 
naturally rather curious ; what may you have come down here for ?” 

“ On a far less pleasant errand, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, the colour mounting 
to his face at the recollection. “ I have come down here, sir, to expose the 
treachery and falsehood of an individual, upon whose truth and honour I placed 
implicit reliance.” 

“ Dear me,” said Mr. Peter Magnus, “that’s very unpleasant. It is a lady, I 
presume ? Eh ? ah ! Sly, Mr. Pickwick, sly. Well, Mr. Pickwick, sir, I 
wouldn’t probe your feelings for the world. Painful subjects, these, sir, very 
painful. Don’t mind me, Mr. Pickwick, if you wish to give vent to your feelings. 
I know what it is to be jilted, sir ; I have endured that sort of thing three or four 
times.” 

“ I am much obliged to you, for your condolence on what you presume to be 
my melancholy case,” said Mr. Pickwick, winding up his watch, and laying it on 
the table, “ but — ” 

“ No, no,” said Mr. Peter Magnus, “ not a word more ; it’s a painful subject. 
I see, I see. What’s the time Mr. Pickwick ?” 

“ Past twelve.” 

“ Dear me, it’s time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be 
pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick.” 

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the 
chamber-maid ; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leathern hat-box, and the 
brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bed-room, he retired in company 
with a japanned candlestick, to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and 
another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous 
windings, to another. 

“ This is your room, sir,” said the chamber-maid. 

“Very well,” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably 
iirge double-bedded room, with a fire ; upon the whole, a more comfortable-look- 
ing apartment than Mr Pickwick’s short experience of the accommodations of 
tlic Great White Horse 1; id led him to expect. 

“ Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Oh, no, sir.” 

“ Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight 
in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night.” 

“ Yes, sir.” And bidding Mr. Pickwick good night, the chamber-maid retired, 

and left him alone. , ^ . 

Mr. Ph kwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and feU into a tram oi 


The Pickwick Club. 


190 

rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they 
would join him ; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell ; and from that 
lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of Dodson 
and Fogg. P'rom Dodson and Fogg’s it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre 
of the history of the queer client ; and then it came back to the Great White 
Horse at Ipswich, with suflicient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was 
falling asleep. So he roused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected 
he had left his watch on the table down stairs. 

Now, this watch was a special favourite with Mr. Pickwick, having been carried 
about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a gi eater number of years than we 
feel called upon to state at present. The possibility of going to sleep, unless it 
were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in the watch-pocket over his head, had 
never entered Mr. Pickwick’s brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was 
unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of 
which he had just divested himself, and taking the japanned candlestick in his 
hand, walked quietly down stairs. 

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to 
descend, and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, 
and began to congratulate himself on having gained the giound-floor, did another 
flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, 
which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after 
passage did he explore ; room after room did he peep into ; at length, as he 
was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the 
identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property 
on the table. 

Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to re-trace his steps 
to his bed-chamber. If his progress downward had been attended with diffi- 
culties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing. Rows of 
doors, garnished with boots of every shape, make, and size, branched off in every 
possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some bed-room 
door which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within of “ Who the devil’s 
that ?” or “ What do you want here caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with 
a perfectly marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an 
open door attracted his attention. He peeped in. Right at last ! There were the 
two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. 
His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the 
drafts of air through which he had passed, and sank into the socket as he 
closed the door after him. “No matter,” said Mr. Pickwick, “I can undress 
myself just as well by the light of the fire.” 

The bedsteads stood one on each side of the door ; and on the inner side of 
each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just wide enough to 
admit of a person’s getting into, or out of bed, on that side, if he or she thought 
proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside, Mr. Pick- 
wick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair, and leisurely divested himself of his 
shoes and gaiters. He then took off and folded up his coat, waist :oat, and neck- 
cloth, and slowly dra\ving on his tasseled night-cap, secured it firmly on his head, 
by tying beneath his chin the strings which he always had attached to that article 
of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewildeiment 
struck upon his mind. Throwing himself back in the rush-bottomed chair, 
Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that it would have been quite 
delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles that 
expanded his amiable features as thev shone forth from beneath the night-cap. 

“It is the best idea,’ sai'l Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost 


Apparition of a Middle-aged Lady. 191 

cracked the night-cap strings : “ It is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, 
and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, ver^ 
droll.” Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was 
about to continue the process of undressing, in the best possible humour, when he 
was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption ; to wit, the entrance 
into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locldng the door, advanced 
to the dressing table, and set down the light upon it. 

The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick’s features was instantaneously lost in a 
look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever 
it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pickwick had 
had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. Who could it be ? A robber } 
Some evil-minded person who had seen him come up stairs with a handsome watch 
in his hand, perhaps. What was he to do ! 

^ The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious 
visitor with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, 
and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this manoeuvre 
Tie accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so 
that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and night-cap, and putting 
on his spectacles, he mustered up courage, and looked out. 

Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the 
dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady, in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in 
brushing what ladies call their “ back-hair.” However the unconscious middle- 
aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining 
there for the night ; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, 
with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, 
where it was glimmering away, like a gigantic light-house in a particularly small 
piece of water. 

“ Bless my soul,” thought Mr. Pickwick, “what a dreadful thing !” 

“ Hem !” said the lady ; and in went Mr. Pickwick’s head with automaton-like 
rapidity. 

“ I never met with anything so awful as this,” thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the 
cold perspiration starting in drops upon his night-cap. “ Never. This is fearful.” 

It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward. 
So out went Mr. Pickwick’s head again. The prospect was worse than before. 
The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair ; had carefully enveloped it 
in a muslin night-cap with a small plaited border ; and was gazing pensively on the 
fire. 

“This matter is growing alarming,” reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. “I 
can’t allow things to go on in this way. By the self-possession of that lady it is 
clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out she’ll alarm 
the house ; but if I remain here the consequences will be still more frightful.” 

Mr. Pickwick, it is quite unnecessary to say, was one of the most modest and 
delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his night-cap to a lady 
cverpowered him, but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do 
what he would, he couldn’t get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was 
only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains, and called out 
very loudly : 

“ Ha — hum ! ” 

That the lady started at this unexpected sound was evident, by her falling up 
against the rushlight shade ; that she persuaded herself it must have been the effect 
of imagination was equally clear, for when Mr. Pickwick, under the impression 
that she 1-ad fainted away stone-dead from fright, ventured to peep out again, she 
was gazing pensively on the fire as before. 


192 


The Pickwick Club. 


“Most extraordinary female this,” thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. 
“Ha — hum!” 

These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious 
giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to 
lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of 
fancy. 

“ Gracious Heaven I ” said the middle-aged lady, “ what’s that 

“It’s — it’s — only a gentleman, Ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick from behind the 
curtains. 

“ A gentleman 1” said the lady with a terrific scream. 

“ It’s all over ! ” thought Mr. Pickwick. 

“ A strange man I ” shrieked the lady. Another instant and the house would 
be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door. 

“Ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of his 
desperation, “ Ma’am 1 ” 

Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting 
out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we 
have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it, to reach the staircase, 
and she would most undoubtedly have done so by this time, had not the sudden 
apparition of Mr. Pickwick’s night-cap driven her back into the remotest comer of 
the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pick- 
wick in his turn stared wildly at her. 

“Wretch,” said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, “what do you 
want here 

“Nothing, Ma’am; nothing, whatever. Ma’am;” said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. 

“ Nothing I ” said the lady, looking up. 

“Nothing, Ma’am, upon my honour,” said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so 
energetically that the tassel of his night-cap danced again. “ I am almost ready to 
sink. Ma’am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my night-cap (here the 
lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can’t get it off. Ma’am (here Mr. Pickwick 
gave it a treme/idous tug, in proof of the statement). It is evident to me. Ma’am, 
now, that I have mistaken this bed-room for my own. I had not been here five 
minutes, Ma’am, when you suddenly entered it.” 

“ If this improbable story be really true, sir,” said the lady, sobbing violently, 
“you will leave it instantly.” 

“ I will. Ma’am, with the greatest pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“Instantly, sir,” said the lady. 

“Certainly, Ma’am,” inteiposed Mr. Pickwick very quickly. “Certainly, 
Ma’am. I — I — am very sorry. Ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance 
at the bottom of the bed, “ to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and 
emotion ; deeply sorry. Ma’am.” 

The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick’s character 
was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. 
Although he had hastily put on his hat over his night-cap, after the manner of the 
old patrol ; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and 
waistcoat over his arm ; nothing could subdue his native politeness. 

“I am exceedingly sorry. Ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low. 

“ If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room,” said the lady. 

“Immediately, Ma’am; this instant. Ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, opening the 
door, and dropping both his shoes with a crash in so doing. 

“I trust. Ma’am,” resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning 
round to bow again : “I trust. Ma’am, that my unblemished character, and the 
devoted respect I entertain foi vour sex, will plead as some slight excuse for 


Circiimsta/itial Evidence. 


J93 

this ” — But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence the lady hc.d thrust 
him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door beliind him. 

WTiatever pounds of self-congratulation Mr. Pickwick might have for having 
escaped so quietly from his late awkward situation, his present position was by no 
means enviable. He was alone, in an open passage, in a strange house, in the 
middle of the night, half dressed ; it was not to be supposed that he could find his 
way in perfect darkness to a room which he had been wholly unable to discover with a 
light, and if he made the slightest noise in his fruitless attempts to do so, he stood 
every chance of being shot at, and perhaps killed, by some wakeful traveller. Ke g 
had no resource but to remain where he was until daylight appeared. So after 
groping his way a few paces down the passage, and, to his infinite alarm, stumbling 
over several pairs of boots in so doing, Mr. Pickwick crouched into a little recess 
in the wall, to wait for morning as philosophically as he might. 

He was not destined, however, to undergo this additional trial of patience : for 
he had not been long ensconced in his present concealment when, to his unspeak- 
able honor, a man, bearing a light, appeared at the end of the passage. His 
honor was suddenly converted into joy, however, when he recognised the foim of 
his faithful attendant. It was indeed Mr. Samuel Weller, who after sitting up 
thus late, Tn conversation with the Boots, who was sitting up for the mail, was now 
about to retire to rest. 

“Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly appearing before him, “Where’s my 
bed -room } ” 

Mr. Weller stared at his master with the most emphatic surprise ; and it was 
not until the question had been repeated three several times, that he turned round, 
and led the way to the long-sought apartment. 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick as he got into bed. “ I have made one of the most 
extraordinary mistakes to-night, that ever were heard of.” 

“ Wery likely, sir,” replied Mr. Weller drily. 

“ But of this I am determined, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ that if I were to 
stop in this house for six months, I would never trust myself about it, alone, 
again.” 

“ That’s the wery prudentest resolution as you could come to, sir,” replied 
Mr. Weller. “ You rayther want somebody to look arter you, sir, wen your 
judgment goes out a wisitin’.” 

“What do you mean by that, Sam said Mr. Pickwick. -He raised himself 
in bed, and e.xtended his hand, as if he were about to say something more ; but 
suddenly checking himself, turned round, and bade his valet “ Good night.” 

“ Good night, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. He paused when he got outside the 
dr.or— shook his head — walked on — stopped — snuffed the candle— shook his head 
again — and finally proceeded slowly to his chamber, apparently buried in the 
profoundest meditation. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

IN WHICH MR. SAMUEL WELLER BEGINS TO DEVOTE HIS ENERGIES TO THK 
RETURN MATCH BETWEEN HIMSELF AND MR. TROTT'ER. 

In a small room in the vincinity of the stable-yard, betimes in the morning, which 
was ushered in by Mr. Pickwick’s adventure with the middle-aged lady in the 
yellow curl-papers sat Mr. Weller senior, preparing himself for his journey to 
London. He was sitting in an excellent attitude for having his portrait taken. 

o 


194 


The Pickwick Clul. 


It is very possible that at some earlier period of his career, Mr. Weller’s profile 
might have presented a bold and deteimined outline. His face, however, had 
expanded under the influence of good living, and a disposition remarkable foi 
resignation ; and its bold fleshy curves had so far extended beyond the limits 
originally assigned them, that unless you took a full view of his countenance in 
front, it was difficult to distinguish more than the extreme tip of a veiy rubicund 
nose. His chin, from the same cause, had acquired the grave and imposing form 
which is generally described by prefixing the word “ double ” to that expressive 
feature; and his complexion exhibited that peculiarly mottled combination of 
colours which is only to be seen in gentlemen of his profession, and in underdone 
roast beef. Round his neck he wore a crimson travelling shawl, which merged 
into his chin by such imperceptible gradations, that it was difficult to distinguish 
the folds of the one, from the folds of the other. Over this, he mounted a long 
waistcoat of a broad pink-striped pattern, and over that again, a wide-skirted gr een 
coat, ornamented with large brass buttons, whereof the two which garnished the 
waist, were so far apart, that no man had ever beheld them both, at the same time. 
His hair, which was short, sleek, and black, was just visible beneath the capacious 
brim of a low-crowned brown hat. His legs were encased in knee-cord breeches, 
and painted top-boots : and a copper watch-chain, terminating in one seal, and a 
key of the same material, dangled loosely from his capacious waistband. 

We have said that Mr. Weller was engaged in preparing for his journey to 
London — he was taking sustenance, in fact. On the table before him, stood a pot 
of ale, a cold round of beef, and a ver)^ respectable-looking loaf, to each of which 
he distributed his favours in turn, with the most rigid impartiality. He had just 
cut a mighty slice from the latter, when the footsteps of somebody entering the 
^oom, caused him to raise his head ; and he beheld his son. 

“Moinin’, Sammy !” said the father. 

The son walked up to the pot of ale, and nodding significantly to his parent, 
took a long draught by way of reply. 

“Werry good power o’ suction, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller the elder, looking 
into the pot, when his first-born had set it down half empty. “You’d ha’ made 
an uncommon fine oyster, Sammy, if you ’d been bom in that station o’ life.” 

“ Yes, I des-say I should ha’ managed to pick up a respectable livin’,” replied 
Sam, applying himself to the cold beef, with considerable vigour. 

“ I ’m wery sony, Sammy,” said the elder Mr. Weller, shaking up the ale, by 
describing small ciides with the pot, preparatory to drinking. “I’m wery sorry, 
Sammy, to hear from your lips, as you let yourself be gammoned by that ’ere 
mulberry man. I always thought, up to three days ago, that the names of Veller 
and gammon could never come into contract, Sammy, never.” 

“ Always exceptin’ the case -of a widder, of course,” said Sam. 

“ Widders, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, slightly changing colour. “ Widders 
are ’ceptions to ev’ry rule. I have heerd how many ord’nary women, one widder’s 
equal to, in pint o’ cornin’ over you. I think it’s five-and-twenty, but I don’t 
rightly know vether it an’t more.” 

“ Well ; that’s pretty well,” said Sam. 

“ Besides,” continued Mr. Weller, not noticing the intennption, “ that’s a weiy 
different thing. You know what the counsel said, Sammy, as defended the 
gen’lem’n as beat his wife with the poker, venever he got jolly. ‘ And arter all, 
my Lord,’ says he, ‘it’s a amable weakness.’ So I says respectin’ widders, 
Sammy, and so you ’ll say, ven you gets as old as me.” 

“ I ought to ha’ know’d better, I know,” said Sam. 

“ Ought to ha’ know’d better ! ” repeated Mr. Weller, striking the table with 
his fist, “ Ought to ha’ laiow’d better ! why, I know a young ’un as hasn’t had 


Touching the Mulberry Man, 


half nor quarter your eddication — as hasn’t slept about the markets, no, not six 
months — who ’d ha’ scorned to be let in, in such a vay ; scorned it, Sammy.” In 
the excitement of feeling produced by this agonising reflection, Mr. Weller rang 
the bell, and ordered an additional pint of ale. 

“ Well, it’s no use talking about it now,” said Sam. “ It’s over, and can’t be 
helped, and that’s one consolation, as they always says in Turkey, ven they cuts 
the WTong man’s head off. It’s my innings now, gov’rnor, and as soon as / 
catches hold o’ this ere Trotter, I ’ll have a good ’un.” 

“ I hope you will Sammy. I hope you will,” retunied Mr. Weller. Here’s 
your health, Sammy, and may you speedily vipe off the disgrace as you’ve in- 
flicted on the family name.” In honour of this toast Mr. Weller imbibed at a 
draught, at least two-thirds of the newly-arrived pint, and handed it over to his 
son, to dispose of the remainder, which he instantaneously did. 

“ And now, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, consulting the large double-faced silver 
watch that hung at the end of the copper chain. “Now it’s time I was up at the 
office to get my vay-bill, and see the coach loaded ; for coaches, Sammy, is like 
guns — they requires to be loaded with wery great care, afore they go off.” 

At this" parental and professional joke, Mr. Weller junior smiled a filial smile. 
His revered parent continued in a solemn tone : 

“ I’m a goin’ to leave you, Samivel my boy, and there’s no telling ven I shall 
see you again. Your mother-in-law may ha’ been too much for me, or a thousand 
things may have happened by the time you next hears any news o’ the celebrated 
Mr. VeUer o’ the Bell Savage. The family name depends wery much upon you, 
Samivel, and I hope you’ll do wot’s right by it. Upon all little pints o’ breedin’, 
I know I may trust you as veil as if it was my own self. So I’ve only this here one 
little bit of adwice to give you. If ever you gets to up’ards o’ fifty, and feels dis- 
posed to go a marryin’ anybody — no matter who — jist you shut yourself up in 
your own room, if you’ve got one, and pison yourself offhand. Hangin ’s wulgar, 
so don’t you have nothin’ to say to that. Pison yourself, Samivel, my boy, pison 
yourself, and you’ll be glad on it artei-wards.” With these affecting words, Mr. 
Weller looked stedfastly on his son, and turning slowly upon his heel, dis- 
appeared from his sight. 

In the contemplative mood which these words had awakened, Mr. Samuel 
Weller walked forth from the Great White Horse when his father had left him ; 
and bending his steps towards St. Clement’s Church, endeavoured to dissipate 
his melancholy, by strolling among its ancient precincts. He had loitered about, 
for some time, when he found himself in a retired spot — a kind of court-yard of 
venerable appearance — which he discovered had no other outlet than the turning 
by which he had entered. He was about retracing his steps, when he was sud- 
denly transfixed to the spot by a sudden appearance ; and the mode and manner 
of this appearance, we now proceed to relate. 

Mr. Samuel Weller had been staring up, at the old brick houses now and then, 
in his deep abstraction, bestowing a wink upon some healthy-looking servant girl 
as she drew up a blind, or threw open a bed-room window, when the green gale 
of a garden at the bottom of the yard, opened, and a man having emerged there- 
from, closed the green gate very carefully after him, and walked briskly towards 
the very spot where Mr. Weller was standing. 

Now, taking this, as an isolated fact, unaccompanied by any attendant circum- 
stances, there was nothing very extraordinary in it ; because in many parts of the 
world, men do come out of gardens, close green gates after them, and even walk 
briskly away, without attracting any particular share of public observation.^ It is 
clear, therefore, that there must have been something in the man, or in his raan- 
nt», or both, to attract Mr, Weller’s particular notice. Whether there was, oi 


1^6 


The Pickwick Club. 


not, we must leave the reader to determine, when we have faithfully recorded the 
behaviour of the individual in question. 

When the man had shut the green gate after him, he walked, as we have said 
twice already, with a brisk pace up the court -yard ; but he no sooner caught sight 
of Mr. Weller, than he faltered, and stopped, as if uncertain, for the moment, 
what course to adopt. As the green gate was closed behind him, and there was 
no other outlet but the one in front, however, he was not long in perceiving that 
he must pass Mr. Samuel Weller to get away. He therefore resumed his brisk 
pace, and advanced, staring straight before him. The most extraordinary thing 
about the man was, that he M’^as contorting his face into the most fearful and 
astonishing grimaces that ever were beheld. Nature’s handywork never was dis- 
guised with such extraordinary artificial carving, as the man had overlaid his 
countenance with, in one moment. 

“ Well ! ” said Mr. Weller to himself, as tlie man approached. “ This is wery 
odd. I could ha’ swore it was him.” 

Up came the man, and his face became more frightfully distorted than ever, as 
he drew nearer. 

“ I could take my oath to that ’ere black hair, and mulberry suit,” said Mr. 
Weller ; “ only I never see such a face as that, afore.” 

As Mr. Weller said this, the man’s features assumed an unearthly twinge, per- 
fectly hideous. He was obliged to pass very near Sam, however, and the scruti- 
nising glance of that gentleman enabled him to detect, under all these appalling 
twists of feature, something too like the small eyes of Mr. Job Trotter, to be 
easily mistaken. 

“ Hallo, you sir ! ” shouted Sam, fiercely. 

The stranger stopped. 

“ Hallo ! ” repeated Sam, still more gruffly. 

The man with the horrible face, looked, with the greatest surprise, up the court, 
and down the court, and in at the windows of the houses — everywhere but at Sam 
Weller — and took another step forward, when he was brought to again, by another 
shout. 

“ Hallo, you sir ! ” said Sam, for the third time. 

There was no pretending to mistake where the voice came from now, so the 
stranger, having no other resource, at last looked Sam Weller full in the face. 

“ It won’t do. Job Trotter,” said Sam. “ Come ! None o’ that ’ere nonsense. 
You ain’t so wery ’andsome that you can afford to throw avay many o’ your good 
looks. Bring them ’ere eyes o’ your’n back into their proper places, or I’ll 
knock ’em out of your head. Dy’e hear } ” 

As Mr. Weller appeared fully disposed to act up to the spirit of this address, 
Mr. Trotter gradually allowed his face to resume its natural expression ; and then 
giving a start of joy, exclaimed, “ What do I see } Mr. Walker ! ” 

“ Ah,” replied Sam. “ You’re wery glad to see me, ain’t you ? ” 

“ Glad ! ” exclaimed Job Trotter ; “ oh, Mr. Walker, if you had but known 
how I have looked forward to this meeting ! It is too much, Mr. Walker ; I can- 
not bear it, indeed I cannot.” And with these words, Mr. Trotter burst into a 
regular inundation of tears, and, flinging his anus around those of Mr. Weller, 
embraced him closely, in an ecstasy of joy. 

“Get off! ” cried Sam, indignant at this process, and vainly endeavouring to 
extricate himself from the grasp of his enthusiastic acquaintance. “ Get off, I 
tell you. What are } ou crying over me for, you portable ingine ? ” 

“ Because I am so glad to see you,” replied Job Trotter, gradually releasing 
Mr. Weller, as the first symptoms of his pugnacity disappeared, ** Oh, Mr. 
Walker, this is too much.” 


A Talk with the Mullerry Man, xgj 

“Too much!” echoed Sam, “I think it is too much — ra}ther! No\^ what 
have you got to say to me, eh ? ” 

Mr. Trotter made no reply ; for the little pink pocket handkerchief was in full 
force. 

“What have you got to say to me, afore I knock your head off? ” repeated 
Mr. Weller, in a threatening manner. 

“ Eh I ” said Mr. Trotter, with a look of virtuous surprise. 

“ What have you got to say to me ? ” 

“ I, Mr. Walker I ” 

“Don’t call me Valker; my name’s Veller; you know that veil enougn. 
What have you got to say to me } ” 

“ Bless you, Mr. Walker — Weller I mean — a great many things, if you will 
come away somewhere, where we can talk comfortably. If you knew how I have 
looked for you, Mr. Weller — ” 

“ Wery hard, indeed, I s’pose ?” said Sam, drily. 

“Very, very sir,” replied Mr. Trotter, without moving a muscle of his face. 
“But shake hands, Mr. Weller.” 

Sam eyed his companion for a few seconds, and then, as if actuated by a sudden 
impulse, complied with his request. 

“How,” said Job Trotter, as they walked away, “How is your dear, good 
master ? Oh, he is a worthy gentleman, Mr. Weller I I hope he didn’t catch 
cold, that dreadful night, sir.” 

There was a momentary look of deep slyness in Job Trotter’s eye, as he said 
this, which ran a thrill through Mr. Weller’s clenched fist as he burnt with a 
desire to make a demonstration on his ribs. Sam constrained himself, however, 
and replied that his master was extremely well. 

“ Oh, I am so glad,” replied Mr. Trotter, “ is he here ? ” 

“ Is your’n ? ” asked Sam, by way of reply. 

“ Oh, yes, he is here, and I grieve to say, Mr. Weller, he is going on, worse 
than ever.” 

“ Ah, ah ? ” said Sam. 

“ Oh, shocking — terrible I ” 

“ At a boarding-school } ” said Sam. 

“No, not at a boarding-school,” replied Job Trotter, with the same sly look 
which Sam had noticed before ; “ Not at a boarding-school.” 

“ At the house with the green gate } ” said Sam, eyeing his companion closely. 

“No, no — oh, not there,” replied Job, with a quicloiess veiy unusual to him, 
“not there.” 

“What yf2is you a doin’ there.?” asked Sam, wdth a sharp glance. “Got 
inside the gate by accident, perhaps ? ” 

“Why, Mr. Weller,” replied Job, “I don’t mind telling you my little secrets, 
because, you know, we took such a fancy for each other when we first met. You 
recollect how pleasant we were that morning ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” said Sam, impatiently. “ I remember. AVell.” 

“Well,” replied Job, speaking with great precision, and in the low tone of a 
man who communicates an important secret ; “ In that house witli the gieen gate, 
Mr. Weller, they keep a good many servants.” 

“ So I should think, from the look on it,” interposed Sam. 

“ Yes,” continued Mr. Trotter, “ and one of them is a cook, who has saved up 
A little money, Mr. Weller, and is desirous, if she can establish herself in life, to 
open a little shop in the chandlery way, you see.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Yes. Mr. Weller. Well, sir, I met her at a chapel that I go to : a v^ry ncal 


J98 


The Pickwick Club, 


little chapel in this town, Mr. Weller, where they sing the number four col lection 
of hymns, which I generally carry about with me, in a httle book, which you may 
perhaps have seen in my hand — and I got a little intimate with her, Mr. Weller, 
and from that, an acquaintance sprung up between us, and I may venture to say, 
Mr. Weller, that 1 am to be the chandler,” 

“ Ah, and a wery amiable chandler you’ll make,” replied Sam, eyeing Job with 
a side look of intense dislike. 

“ The gi-eat advantage of this, Mr. Weller,” continued Job, his eyes filling with 
tears as he spoke, “ will be, that I shall be able to leave my present disgi-aceful 
service with that bad man, and to devote myself to a better and more virtuous life ; 
more like the way in which I was brought up, Mr. Weller.” 

“ You must ha’ been wery nicely brought up,” said Sam. 

Oh, very, Mr. Weller, very,” replied Job. At the recollection of the purity of 
his youthful days, Mr. Trotter pulled forth the pinlc handkerchief, and wept 
'.opiously. 

“ You must ha’ been an uncommon nice boy, to go to school vith,” said Sam. 

“I was, sir,” replied Job, heaving a deep sigh. “I was the idol of the 
place.” 

“ Ah,” said Sam, “ I don’t wonder at it. What a comfort you must ha’ been 
to your blessed mother,” 

At these words, Mr. Job Trotter inserted an end of the pink handkerchief into 
the corner of each eye, one after the other, and began to weep copiously. 

“Wot’s the matter vith the man,” said Sam, indignantly. “ Chelsea water- 
works is nothin’ to you. What are you melting vith now } The consciousness o’ 
willainy } ” 

“I cannot keep my feelings down, Mr. Weller,” said Job, after a short pause. 
“To think that my master should have suspected the conversation I had with 
yours, and so dragged me away in a post-chaise, and after persuading the sweet 
young lady to say she knew nothing of him, and bribing the school -mistress to do 
the same, deserted her for a better speculation ! Oh ! Mr. Weller, it makes me 
shudder.” 

“ Oh, that was the vay, was it ? ” said Mr. Weller. 

“ To be sure it was,” replied Job. 

“Veil,” said Sam, as they had now arrived near the Hotel, “ I vant to have a 
little bit o’ talk with you. Job ; so if you’re not partickler engaged, I should like 
to see you at the Great White Horse to-night, somewheres about eight o’clock.” 

“I shall be sure to come,” said Job. 

“Yes, you’d better,” replied Sam, with a very meaning look, “or else I shall 
perhaps be asking arter you, at the other side of the green gate, and then I might 
cut you out, you know.” 

“ I shall be sure to be wdth you, sir,” said Mr. Trotter; and wringing Sam’s 
hand with the utmost fervour, he walked away. 

“Take care. Job Trotter, take care,” said Sam, looking after him, “ or I shall 
be one too many for you this time. I shall, indeed.” Having uttered this 
soliloquy, and looked after Job till he was to be seen no more, Mr. Weller made 
tlie best of his way to his master’s bed-room. 

“ It’s all in training, sir,” said Sam. 

“ What’s in training, Sam } ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I have found ’em out, sir,” said Sara. 

** Found out who } ” 

** That ’ere queer customer, and the melan-cholly chap with the black hair.’* 

“Impossible, Sam!” said Mr. Pickwick, with tlie greatest energy. “■\^ere 
are they, Sam ; where are they ?” 


A Trying Position. 199 

“ Hush, hush ! ” replied Mr. Weller ; and as he assisted Mr. Pickwick to dress, 
he detailed the plan of action on which he proposed to enter. 

“ But when is this to be done, Sam } ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“All in good time, sir,” replied Sam. 

Whether it was done in good time, or not, Avill be seen hereafter. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

WHEREIN MR. PETER MAGNUS GROWS JEALOUS, AND THE MIDDLE-AGED 
LADY APPREHENSIVE, WHICH BRINGS THE PICKWICKIANS WITHIN THE 
GRASP OF THE LAW. 

When Mr. Pickwick descended to the room in which he and Mr. Peter Magnus 
had spent the preceding evening, he found that gentleman with the major part of 
the contents of the two bags, the leathern hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, 
displayed to all possible advantage on his person, while he himself was pacing up 
and down the room in a state of the utmost excitement and agitation. 

“ Good morning, sir,” said Mr. Peter Magnus. “What do you thinlc of this, 
sir .? ” 

“Very effective indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick, surveying the garments of Mr. 
Peter Magnus with a good-natured smile. 

“Yes, I think it’ll do,” said Mr. Magnus. “Mr. Pickwick, sir, I have sent 
up my card.” 

“ Have you .?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ And the waiter brought back word, tliat she would see me at eleven — at 
eleven, sir ; it only wants a quarter now.” 

“Very near the time,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Yes, it is rather near,” replied Mr. Magnus, “ rather too near to be pleasant 
— eh ! Mr. Pickwick, sir .?” 

“ Confidence is a great thing in these cases,” observed Mr. Pickwick. 

“I believe it is, sir,” said Mr. Peter Magnus. “I am very confident, sir. 
Really, Mr. Pickwick, I do not see why a man should feel any fear in such a case 
as this, sir. What is it, sir There’s nothing to be ashamed of ; it’s a matter of 
mutual accommodation, nothing more. Husband on one side, wife on the other. 
That’s my view of the matter, Mr. Pickwick.” 

“ It is a very philosophical one,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ But breakfast is 
wailing, Mr. Magnus. Come.” 

Down they sat to breakfast, but it was evident, notwithstanding the boasting of 
Mr. Peter Magnus, that he laboured under a veiy considerable degree of nerv'ous- 
ness, of which loss of appetite, a propensity to upset the tea-things, a spectral 
attempt at drollery, and an irresistible inclination to look at the clock, every 
other second, were among the principal symptoms. 

“ He — he— he,” tittered Mr. IMagnus, affecting cheerfulness, and gasping with 
agitation. “ It only wants two minutes, Mr. Pickwick. Am I pale, sir ?” 

“Not very,” replied ISIr. Pickwick. 

There was a brief pause. . . 

“ I beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick ; but have you ever done this sort of Uunj 
in your time ?” said Mr. Magnus. 

“ You mean proposing f ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

-Yes.’» 


200 


The Pickwick Club. 


“Never,” said Mr. Pickwick, with great energy, “never.” 

“ You have no idea, then, how it’s best to begin ?” said Mr. Magnus. 

“ Wliy,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ I may have foimed some ideas upon the subject, 
but, as I have never submitted them to the test of experience, I should be sorry if 
you were induced to regulate your proceedings by them.” 

“ I should feel very much obliged to you, for any advice, sir,” said Mr. Magnus, 
taking another look at the clock : the hand of which was verging on the five 
minutes past. 

“Well, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, with the profound solemnity with which that 
great man could, when he pleased, render his remarks so deeply impressive ; “I 
should commence, sir, with a tribute to the lady’s beauty and excellent qualities ; 
from them, sir, I should diverge to my own unworthiness.” 

“ Very good,” said Mr. Magnus. 

“ Unworthiness for her only, mind, sir,” resumed Mr. Pickwick ; “ for to shew 
that I was not wholly unworthy, sir, I should take a brief re\aew of my past life, 
and present condition. I should argue, by analogy, that to anybody else, I must 
be a very desirable object. I should then expatiate on the warmth of my love, 
and the depth of my devotion. Perhaps I might then be tempted to seize her hand.” 

“ Yes, I see,” said Mr. Magnus ; “that would be a very great point.” 

“ I should then, sir,” continued Mr. Pickwick, growing warmer as the subject 
presented itself in more glowing colours before him : “I should then, sir, come to 
the plain and simple question, ‘ Will you have me I think I aro justified in 
assuming that upon this, she would turn away her head.” 

“ You think that may be taken for granted said Mr. Magnus ; “ because if 
she did not do that at the right place, it would be embarrassing.” 

“I think she would,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Upon this, sir, I should squeeze 
her hand, and I think — I think, Mr. Magnus — that after I had done that, sup- 
posing there was no refusal, I should gently draw away the handkerchief, which 
my slight knowledge of human nature leads me to suppose the lady would be 
applying to her eyes at the moment, and steal a respectful kiss. I think I should 
kiss her, Mr. Magnus ; and at this particular point, I am decidedly of opinion that 
if the lady were going to take me at all, she would murmur into my ears a bashful 
acceptance.” 

Mr. Magnus started; gazed on Mr. Pickwick’s intelligent face, for a short timr 
in silence ; and then (the dial pointing to the ten minctes past) shook him warml) 
by the hand, and rushed desperately from the room. 

Mr. Pickwick had taken a few strides to and fro ; and the small hand of thr 
clock folloAving the latter part of his example, had arrived at the figure whicl 
indicates the half hour, when the door suddenly opened. He turned round t( 
meet Mr. Peter Magnus, and encountered, in his stead, the joyous face of Mi 
Tupman, the serene countenance of Mr. Winkle, and the intellectual lineament 
of Mr. Snodgrass. As Mr. Pickwick greeted them, Mr. Peter Magnus trippea 
into the room. 

“My friends, the gentleman I was speaking of— Mr. Magnus,” said IMi 
Pickwick. 

“Your servant, gentlemen,” said Mr. Magnus, evidently in a high state of er« 
citeraent ; “ Mr. Pickwick, allow me to speak to you, one moment, sir.” 

As he said this, Mr. Magnus harnessed his forefinger to Mr. Pickwick’s button 
hole, and, drawing him to a window recess, said : 

“ Congratulate me, Mr. Pickwick ; I followed your advice to the very letter.” 

“ And it was all correct, was it ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“It was, sir. Could not possibly have been better,” replied Mr. Magnus. “ Mr 
Pickwick, she is mine.” 


201 


The Apparition rc-appears. 


“ I con^atulr.te you with all my heart,” replied Mr. Pickwick, warmly shaking 
his new friend by the hand. 

“ You must see her, sir,” said Mr. Magnus ; “ this way, if you please. Excuse 
us for one instant, gentlemen.” Hurrying on in this way, Mr. Peter Magnus drew 
Mr. Pickwick from the room. He paused at the next door in the passage, and 
tapped gently thereat. 

“ Come in,” said a female voice. And in they went. 

“ Miss Witherfield,” said Mr. Magnus, “ Allow me to introduce my very par- 
ticular friend, Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick, I beg to make you known to Miss 
Witherfield.” 

The lady was at the upper end of the room. As Mr. Pickwick bowed, he took 
his spectacles from his waistcoat pocket, and put them on ; a process which he 
had no sooner gone through, than, uttering an exclamation of surprise, Mr. Pick- 
wick retreated several paces, and the lady, with a half-suppressed scream, hid 
her face in her hands, and dropped into a chair ; whereupon Mr. Peter Magnus 
was stricken motionless on the spot, and gazed from one to the other, with a 
t ountenance expressive of the extremities of horror and surprise. 

This certainly was, to all appearance, very unaccountable behaviour ; but the 
fact is, that Mr. Pickwick no sooner put on his spectacles, than he at once recog- 
nised in the future Mrs. Magnus the lady into whose room he had so unwarrantably 
intruded on the previous night ; and the spectacles had no sooner crossed Mr. 
Pickwek’s nose, than the lady at once identified the countenance which she had 
seen surrounded by all the horrors of a night-cap. So the lady screamed, and 
Mr. Pickwick started. 

“ Mr. Pickwick !” exclaimed Mr. Magnus, lost in astonishment, “ What is the 
meaning of this, sir? What is the meaning of it, sir ?” added Mr. Magnus, in a 
threatening, and a louder tone. 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Pickwfick, somewhat indignant at the very sudden manner in 
which Mr. Peter Magnus had conjugated himself into the imperative mood, “ I 
decline answering that question.” 

“You decline it, sir ?” said Mr. Magnus. 

“ I do, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick : “I object to saying anything which may 
compromise that lady, or awaken unpleasant recollections in her breast, without 
her consent and permission.” 

“ Miss Witherfield,” said Mr. Peter Magnus, “ do you know this person ?” 

“ Know him ! ” repeated the middle-aged lady, hesitating. 

“ Yes, know him, ma’am. I said know him,” replied Mr. Magnus, with 
ferocity. 

“ I have seen him,” replied the middle-aged lady. 

“ Where ?” inquired Mr. Magnus, “ where ?” 

“ That,” said the middle-aged lady, rising from her seat, and averting her head, 
“ that I would not reveal for worlds.” 

“ I understand you, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ and respect your delicacy ; 
it shall never be revealed by fne, depend upon it.” 

“Upon my word, ma’am,” said Mr. Magnus, “considering the situation in 
which I am placed with regard to yourself, you carry this matter olF with tolerable 
poolness — tolerable coolness, ma’am.” 

“Cruel Mr. Magnus !” said the middle-aged lady ; here she wept very copiously 
indeed. 

“ Address your observations to me, sir,” interposed Mr* Pickwick; “I alone am 
to blame, if anybody be.” 

“ Oh ! you alone are to blame, are you, sir ?” said Mr. Magnus ; “ I — — se^ 
through this, sir. You repent of your determination now, do you ?” 


202 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ My determination !” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Your determination, sir. Oh ! don’t stare at me, sir,” said Mr. Magnus ; **1 
recollect your words last night, sir. You came down here, sir, to expose the 
treachery and falsehood of an individual on whose truth and honour you had placed 
implicit reliance — eh Here Mr. Peter Magnus indulged in a prolonged sneer ; 

and taking off his green spectacles — which he probably found superfluous in his fit 
of jealousy — rolled his little eyes about, in a manner frightful to behold. 

“ Eh said Mr. Magnus ; and then he repeated the sneer with increased eflfect. 
“ But you shall answer it, sir.” 

“ Answer what said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Never mind, sir,” replied Mr. Magnus, striding up and down the room. 
“Never mind.” 

There must be something very comprehensive in this phrase of “Never mind,” 
for we do not recollect to have ever witnessed a quarrel in the street, at a theatre, 
public room, or elsewhere, in which it has not been the standard reply to all bel- 
ligerent inquiries. “Do you call yourself a gentleman, sir.?” — “Never mind 
sir.” “ Did I offer to say anything to the young woman, sir.?” — “ Never mind^ 
sir .?” “ Do you want your head knocked up against that wall, sir .?” — “ Never 

mind, sir.” It is observable, too, that there would appear to be some hidden taunt 
in this universal “ Never mind,” which rouses more indignation in the bosom 
of the individual addressed, than the most lavish abuse could possibly awaken. 

We do not mean to assert that the application of this brevity to himself, struck 
exactly that indignation to Mr. Pickwack’s soul, which it would infallibly have 
roused in a vulgar breast. We merely record the fact that Mr. Pickwick opened 
the room door, and abruptly called out, “ Tupman, come here !” 

Mr. Tupman immediately presented himself, with a look of very considerable 
surprise. 

“ Tupman,” said Mr. Pickwick, “a secret of some delicacy, in which that lady 
is concerned, is the cause of a difference which has just arisen between this gen- 
tleman and myself. When I assure him, in your presence, that it has no relation 
to himself, and is not in any way connected with his affairs, I need hardly beg you 
to take notice that if he continue to dispute it, hfe expresses a doubt of my veracity, 
which I shall consider extremely insulting.” As Mr. Pickwick said this, he looked 
encyclopaedias at Mr. Peter Magnus. 

Mr. Pickwick’s upright and honourable bearing, coupled with that force and 
energy of speech which so eminently distinguished him, would have earned con- 
viction to any reasonable mind ; but unfortunately at that particular moment, the 
mind of Mr. Peter Magnus was in anything but reasonable order. Consequently, 
instead of receiving Mr. Pickwick’s explanation as he ought to have done, he 
forthwith proceeded to work himself into a red-hot, scorching, consuming, passion, 
and to talk about what was due to his oum feelings, and all that sort of thing : 
adding force to his declamation by striding to and fro, and pulling his hair — ■ 
amusements which he would vaiy occasionally, by shaking his fist in Mr. Pick- 
wick’s philanthropic countenance. 

Mr. Pickwick, in his turn, conscious of his own innocence and rectitude, and 
irritated by having unfortunately involved the middle-aged lady in such an un- 
pleasant affair, was not so quietly disposed as was his wont. The consequence 
was, that words ran high, and voices higher ; and at length Mr. Magnus told Mr. 
Pickwick he should hear from him ; to which Mr. Pickwick replied, with laudable 
politeness, that the sooner he heard from him the better ; whereupon the middle* 
aged lady rushed in terror from the room, out of which Mr. Tupman dragged Mr. 
Pickwick, leaving Mr. Peter Magnus to himself and meditation. 

If the middle-aged lady had mingled much with the busy world, or had profited 


The Dignity of the Bench. i 03 

H all, by the manners and customs of those who make the laws and set the 
fashions, she would have knowm that this sort of ferocity is the most harmless 
thing in nature ; but as she had lived for the most part in the countiy, and never 
read the parliamentary debates, she was little versed in these particular refinements 
of cnilised life. Accordingly, when she had gained her bed-chamber, bolted her- 
self in, and begun to meditate on the scene she had just witnessed, the most 
terrific pictures of slaughter and destruction presented themselves to her imagina- 
tion ; among which, a full-length portrait of Mr. Peter Magnus borne home by 
four men, with the embellishment of a whole barrel-full of bullets in his left side, 
was among the veiy least. The more the middle-aged lady meditated, the more 
terrified she became ; and at length she determined to repair to the house of the 
principal magistrate of the town, and request him to secure the persons of Mr. 
Pickwick and Mr. Tupman without delay. 

To this decision the middle-aged lady was impelled by a variety of considera- 
tions, the chief of which, was the incontestable proof it would afford of her devo- 
tion to Mr. Peter Magnus, and her anxiety for his safety. She was too well 
acquainted with his jealous temperament to venture the slightest allusion to the 
real cause of her agitation on beholding Mr. Pickwick ; and she trusted to her 
own influence and power of persuasion with the little man, to quell his boisterous 
jealousy, supposing that Mr. Pickwick were removed, and no fresh quarrel could 
arise. Filled with these reflections, the middle-aged lady arrayed herself in her 
bonnet and shawl, and repaired to the Mayor’s dwelling straightway. 

Now George Nupkins, Esquire, the principal magistrate aforesaid, was as grand 
a personage as the fastest walker would find out, between sunrise and sunset, on 
the twenty-first of June, which being, according to the almanacs, the longest day 
in the whole year, would naturally afford him the longest period for his search. 
On this particular morning, Mr. Nupkins was in a state of the utmost excitement 
and irritation, for there had been a rebellion in the town ; all the day-scholars at 
the largest day-school had conspired to break the windows of an obnoxious apple- 
seller, and had hooted the beadle, and pelted the constabulaiy — an elderly gentle- 
man in top-boots, who had been called out to repress the tumult, and who had 
been a peace-officer, man and boy, for half a century at least. And Mr. Nupkins 
was sitting in his easy chair, frowning with majesty, and boiling with rage, when 
a lady was announced on pressing, private, and particular business. Mr. Nupkins 
looked calmly tenable, and commanded that the lady should be shown in : which 
command, like all the mandates of emperors, and magistrates, and other ^eat 
potentates of the earth, was forthwith obeyed ; and Miss Witherfield, interestingly 
agitated, was ushered in accordingly. 

“ Muzzle !” said the magistrate. 

Muzzle was an undersized footman, with a long body and short legs. 

“ Muzzle ] ” 

“ Yes, your worship.” 

“ Place a chair, and leave the room.” 

“ Yes, your worship.” 

“Now, ma’am, will you state your business ? ” said the magistrate. 

“ It is of a very painful kind, sir,” said Miss Witherfield. 

“ Very likely, ma’am,” said the magistrate. “ Compose your feelings, ma’am.” 
Here Mr. Nupkins looked benignant. “ And then tell me what legal business 
brings you here, ma’am.” Here the magistrate triumphed over the man ; and he 
looked stem again. 

“It is very distressing to me, sir, to give this information,” said Miss Wither* 
field, “ but I fear a duel is going to be fought here.” 

“ Heie, ma’am ? ” said the magistrate. “ Where, ma’am ? ” 


204 


The Pic'fiwick Club. 


“In Ipswich.” 

“ In Ipswich, ma’am ! A duel in Ipswich ! ” said the magistrate, perfectly 
aghast at the notion. “ Impossible, ma’am ; nothing of the kind can be contem- 
plated in this town, I am persuaded. Bless my soul, ma’am, are you aware of the 
activity of our local magistracy } Do you happen to have heard, ma’am, that I 
rushed into a prize-ring on the fourth of May last, attended by only sixty special 
constables ; and, at the hazard of falling a sacrifice to the angry passions of an 
infuriated multitude, prohibited a pugilistic contest between the Middlesex 
Dumpling and the Suffolk Bantam ? A duel in Ipswich, ma’am ! I don’t think 
~I do not think,” said the magistrate, reasoning with himself, “that any two 
men can have had the hardihood to plan such a breach of the peace, in this town.” 

“ My information is unfortunately but too correct,” said the middle-aged lady, 
“ I was present at the quarrel.” 

“ It’s a most extraordinary thing,” said the astounded magistrate. “ Muzzle ! ” 

“Yes, your worship.” 

“ Send Mr. Jinks here, directly ! Instantly.” 

“Yes, your worship.” 

Muzzle retired ; and a pale, sharp-nosed, half-fed, shabbily-clad clerk, of 
micWle age, entered the room. 

“ Mr. Jinks,” said the magistrate. “ Mr. Jinks.” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Jinks. 

“ This lady, Mr. Jinks, has come here, to give information of an intended duel 
in this town.” 

Mr. Jinks not knowing exactly what to do, smiled a dependent’s smile. 

“ What are you laughing at, Mr. Jinks ? ” said the magistrate. 

Mr. Jinks looked serious, instantly. 

“Mr. Jinks,” said the magistrate, “you’re a fool.” 

Mr. Jinks looked humbly at the great man, and bit the top of his pen. 

“ You may see something very comical in this infonnation, sir ; but I can tell 
you this, Mr. Jinks ; that you have very little to laugh at,” said the magistrate. 

The hungry-looking Jinks sighed, as if he were quite aware of the fact of his 
having very little indeed, to be merry about ; and, being ordered to take the 
lady’s information, shambled to a seat, and proceeded to write it down. 

“ This man, Pickwick, is the principal, I understand,” said the magistrate, 
when the statement was finished. 

“ He is,” said the middle-aged lady. 

“ And the other rioter — what’s his name, Mr. Jinks ?” 

“Tupman, sir.” 

“ Tupman is the second ? ” 

“Yes.” 

“ The other principal you say, has absconded, ma’am .? ” 

“Yes,” replied Miss Witherfeld, with a short cough. 

“ Vei-y well,” said the magistrate. “ These are two cut-throats from London, 
who have come down here to destroy his Majesty’s population : thinking that at 
this distance from the capital, the arm of the law is weak and paralysed. They 
shall be made an example of. Draw up the warrants, Mr. Jinks. Muzzle ! ” 

“Yes, your worship.” 

“ Is Drummer down stairs ? ” 

Yes, your worship.” 

“ Send him up.” 

The obsequious Muzzle retired, and presently returned, introducing the elderly 
gentleman in the top-boots, who was chiefly remarkable for a bottle.-nose, a hoarse 
«oice, a snuff coloiired surtout, and a wandering eye. 


Warra n ts g ran ted. 2 05 

“ Gmmmer,” said the magistrate. 

** Your wash-up.” 

Is the town quiet now ? ” 

“Pretty well, your wash-up,” replied Grummer. “Pop’lar feeling has in a 
measure subsided, consekens o’ the boys having dispersed to cricket.” 

“Nothing but vigorous measures will do in these times, Grummer,” said the 
magistrate, in a determined manner. “ If the authority of the king’s officers is 
set at nought, we must have the riot act read. If the civil power cannot protect 
tliese windows, Grummer, the military must protect the civil power, and the 
windows too. I believe that is a maxim of the constitution, Mr. Jinks ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir,” said Jinks. 

“ Very good,” said the magistrate, signing the warrants. “ Grummer, you will 
bjing these persons before me, this afternoon. You will find them at the Great 
White Horse. You recollect the case of the Middlesex Dumpling and the 
Suffolk Bantam, Grummer ? ” 

Mr. Grummer intimated, by a retrospective shake of the head, that he should 
never forget it — as indeed it was not likely he would, so long as it continued to be 
cited daily. 

“ This is even more unconstitutional,” said the magistrate ; “ this is even a 
^eater breach of the peace, and a grosser infringement of his Majesty’s preroga- 
tive. I believe duelling is one of his Majesty’s most undoubted prerogatives, 
Mr. Jinks ? ” 

“Expressly stipulated in Magna Charta, sir,” said Mr. Jinks. 

“ One of the brightest jewels in the British crown, wrung from his Majesty by 
the Barons, I believe, Mr. Jinks ? ” said the magistrate. 

“Just so, sir,” replied Mr. Jinks. 

“Very well,” said the magistrate, drawing himself up proudly, “it shall not be 
violated in this portion of his dominions. Grummer, procure assistance, and 
execute these warrants with as little delay as possible. Muzzle ! ” 

“Yes, your worship.” 

“ Show the lady out.” 

Miss Witherfield retired, deeply impressed with the magistrate’s learning and 
research ; Mr. Nupkins retired to lunch ; Mr. Jinks retired within himself — that 
being the only retirement he had, except the sofa-bedstead in the small parlour 
which was occupied by his landlady’s family in the daytime — and Mr. Grummer 
retired, to wipe out, by his mode of discharging his present commission, the 
insult which had been fastened upon himself, and the other representative of his 
Maiesty — the beadle — in the course of the morning. 

While these resolute and determined preparations for the conservation of 
the King’s peace, were pending, Mr. Pickwack and his friends, wholly uncon- 
scious of the mighty events in progress, had sat quietly down to dinner ; and very 
talkative and companionable they all were. Mr. Pickwick was in the very act of 
relating his adventure of the preceding night, to the great amusement of his 
followers, Mr. Tupman especially, when the door opened, and a somewhat 
forbidding countenance peeped into the room. The eyes in the forbidding 
countenance looked very earnestly at Mr. Pickwick, for several seconds, and were 
to all appearance satisfied with their investigation ; for the body to which tlie 
forbidding countenan ;e belonged, slowly brought itself into the apartment, and 
presented the form of an elderly individual in top-boots — not to kc^p the reader 
any longer in suspense, in short, the eyes were the wandering eyes of Mi. 
Grummer, and the body was the body of the same gentleman. 

Mr. Grummer’s mode of proceeding was professional, but peculiar. His first act 
was to bolt the door 01: the inside ; his second, to polish his head and counte- 


2o6 


The Pickwick Clul, 


nance veiy carefully ^^ilh a cotton hadkerchief ; his third, to place his hat, with the 
cotton handkerchief in it, on the nearest chair ; and his fourth, to produce from 
the breast-pocket of his coat a short truncheon, surmounted by a brazen crown, 
with which he beckoned to Mr. Pickwick wth a grave and gbost-like air. 

Mr. Snodgrass was the first to break the astonished silence. He looked steadily 
at Mr. Grummer for a brief space, and then said emphatically : “ This is a private 
room, sir. A private room.” 

Mr. Ginmmer shook his head, and replied, “No room’s private to his Majesty 
when the street door’s once passed. That’s law. Some people maintains that an 
Englishman’s house is his castle. That’s gammon.” 

The Pickwickians gazed on each other with wondering eyes. 

“ Wliich is Mr. Tupman inquired Mr. Grummer. He had an intuitive per- 
ception of Mr. Pickwick ; he knew him at once. 

“ My name’s Tupman,” said that gentleman. 

“ My name’s Law,” said Mr. Gnimmer. 

“What ?” said Mr. Tupman. 

“Law,” replied Mr. Grummer, “ law, civil power, and exekative ; them’s my 
titles ; here’s my authority. Blank Tupman, blank Pickvick — against the peace 
of our sufferin Lord the King — stattit in that case made and purwided — and all 
regular. I apprehend you Pickvick ! Tupman — the aforesaid.” 

“What do you mean by this insolence?” said Mr. Tupman, starting up; 
“ Leave the room ! ” 

“ Halloo,” said Mr. Grummer, retreating very expeditiously to the door, and 
opening it an inch or two, “ Dubbley.” 

“ Well,” said a deep voice from the passage. 

“ Come for’ard, Dubbley.” 

At the word of command, a dirty-faced man, something over six feet high, and 
stout in proportion, squeezed himself through the half-open door (making his 
face very red in the process), and entered the room. 

“ Is the other specials outside, Dubbley ?” inquired Mr. Grummer. 

Mr. Dubbley, who was a man of few words, nodded assent. 

“ Order in the diwision under your charge, Dubbley,” said Mr. Grummer. 

Mr. Dubbley did as he was desired ; and half a dozen men, each with a short 
truncheon and a brass crown, flocked into the room. Mr. Grummer pocketed his 
staff, and looked at Mr. Dubbley ; Mr. Dubbley pocketed his staff and looked at 
the division ; the division pocketed their staves and looked at Messrs. Tupman 
and Pickwick. 

Mr. Pickwick and his followers rose as one man. 

“ What is the meaning of this atrocious intrusion upon my privacy ?” said Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“ Who dares apprehend me ?” said Mr. Tupman. 

“What do you want here, scoundrels ?” said Mr. Snodgrass. 

Mr. Winkle said nothing, but he fixed his eyes on Grummer, ano bestowed a 
look upon him, which, if he had had any feeling, must have pierced his brain. As 
it was, however, it had no visible effect upon him whatever. 

When the executive perceived that Mr. Pickwick and his friends were disposed 
to resist the authority of the law, they very significantly turned up their coat 
sleeves, as if knocking them down in the first instance, and taking them up after- 
wards, were a mere professional act which had only to be thought of, to be done, 
as a matter of course. This demonstration was not lost upon Mr. Pickwiclc. He 
conferred a few moments with Mr. Tupman apart, and then signified his readi- 
ness to proceed to the Mayor’s residence, merely begging the parties then and 
tLcie assembled, to take notice, that it was his firm intention to resent this 


The Offenders in Custody. a iy 

monstrous invasion of his privileges as an Englishman, the instant he was at libert y ; 
whereat the parties then and there assemWed laughed veiy heartily, with the 
single exception of Mr. Gnimmer, w'ho seemed to consider that any slight 
cast upon the divine right of magistrates, was a species of blasphemy, not to be 
tolerated. 

But when Mr. Pickwick had signified his readiness to bow to the laws of his 
countiy ; and just when the waiters, and hostlers, and chamber-maids, and post- 
boys, who had anticipated a delightful commotion from his threatened obstinacy, 
began to turn away, disappointed and disgusted, a difficulty arose which had not 
been foreseen. With every sentiment of veneration for the constituted authorities, 
Mr. Pickwick resolutely protested against making his appearance in the public 
streets, surrounded and guarded by the officers of justice, like a common criminal. 
^Ir. Grummer, in the then disturbed state of public feeling (for it was half-holiday, 
and the boys had not yet gone home), as resolutely protested against walking on 
the opposite side of the w^ay, and taking Mr. Pickwick’s parole that he would go 
straight to the magistrate’s ; and both Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman as 
strenuously objected to the expense of a post-coach, which was the only respect- 
able conveyance that could be obtained. The dispute ran high, and the dilemma 
lasted long ; and just as the executive were on the point of overcoming Mr. Pick- 
wick’s objection to walking to the magistrate’s, by the trite expedient of canying 
him thither, it was recollected that there stood in the inn yard, an old sedan chair, 
which having been originally built for a gouty gentleman with funded property, 
would hold Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Tupman, at least as conveniently as a modem 
post-chaise. The chair was hired, and brought into the hall ; Mr. Pickwick and 
Mr. Tupman squeezed themselves inside, and pulled down the blinds ; a couple 
of chairmen were speedily found ; and the procession started in grand order. The 
specials surrounded the body of the vehicle ; Mr. Grummer and Mr. Dubbley 
marched triumphantly in front ; Mr. Snodgiass and Mr. Winlde walked arm-in- 
arm behind ; and the unsoaped of Ipswich brought up the rear. 

The shopkeepers of the town, although they had a veiy indistinct notion of the 
nature of the offence, could not but be much edified and gratified by this spectacle. 
Here was the strong arm of the law, coming down with twenty gold-beater force, 
upon two offenders from the metropolis itself ; the mighty engine was directed by 
their own magistrate, and worked by their own officers ; and both the criminals 
by their united efforts, were securely shut up, in the narrow compass of one sedan- 
chair. Many were the expressions of approval and admiration which greeted Mr. 
Grummer, as he headed the cavalcade, staff in hand ; loud and long were the 
shouts raised by the unsoaped ; and amidst these united testimonials of public 
approbation, the procession moved slowly and majestically along. 

Mr. Weller, habited in his morning jacket with the black calico sleeves, was 
returning in a rather desponding state from an unsuccessful survey of the mys- 
terious house with the green gate, when, raising his eyes, he beheld a crowd pour- 
ing down the street, sunounding an object which had very much the appearance 
of a sedan-chair. Willing to divert his thoughts from the failure of his enterprise, 
he stepped aside to see the crowd pass ; and finding that they were -cheering 
away, ver}”^ much to their own satisfaction, forthwith began (by way of raising his 
spirit?) to cheer too, with all his might and main. 

Mr. Gi-ummer passed, and Mr. Dubbley passed, and the sedan passed, and the 
body-guard of specials passed, and Sam was still responding to the enthusiastic 
cheers of the mob, and waving his hat about as if he were in the veiy^ last extreme 
of the wildest joy (though, of course, he had not the faintest idea of the matter in 
hand), when he was suddenly stopped by the unexpected appearance of Mr 
Winkle and Mr. Snodgrass. 


2o8 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Wliat’s the row, gen’l’m’n ? ” cried Sam. “ Who have they got in this here 
watch-box in mournin’ ? ” 

Both gentlemen replied together, but their words were lost in the tumult. 

“ Who ? ” cried Sam again. 

Once more was a joint reply returned ; and, though the words were inaudible. 
Sam saw by the motion of the two pairs of lips that they had uttered the magic 
word “ Pickwick.” 

This was enough. In another minute Mr. Weller had made his way tlirough 
the crowd, stopped the chairmen, and confronted the portly Grummer. 

“ Hallo, old gen’l’m’n ! ” said Sam. “ Who have you got in this here conway- 
Rnce } ” 

“ Stand back,” said Mr. Grummer, whose dignity, like the dignity of a great 
many other men, had been wondrously augmented by a little popularity. 

“ Knock him down, if he don’t,” said Mr. Dubbley. 

“ I’m wery much obliged to you, old gen’l’m’n,” replied Sam, “ for consult- 
ing my conwenience, and I’m still more obliged to the other gen’l’m’n, who 
looks as if he’d just escaped from a giant’s carrywan, for his wery ’ ansome sug- 
gestion ; but I should perfer your givin’ me a answer to my question, if it’s all 
the same to you, — How are you, sir } ” This last observation was addressed 
with a patronising air to Mr. Pickwick, who was peeping through the front 
window, 

Mr. Grummer, perfectly speechless with indignation, dragged the truncheon 
with the brass crown from its particular pocket, and flourished it before Sam’s eyes. 

“ Ah,” said Sam, “ it’s wery pretty, ’specially the crown, which is uncommon 
like the real one.” 

“ Stand back ! ” said the outraged Mr. Grummer. By way of adding force to 
the command, he thrust the brass emblem of royalty into Sam’s neckcloth with 
one hand, and seized Sam’s collar \vith the other : a compliment which Mr. 
Weller returned by knocking him down out of hand : having previously, with the 
utmost consideration, knocked dowm a chairman for him to lie upon. 

Whether Mr. Winkle was seized with a temporary attack of that species of in- 
sanity which originates in a sense of injury, or animated by this display of Mr. 
Weller’s valour, is uncertain ; but certain it is, that he no sooner saw Mr. Grummer 
fall than he made a temfic onslaught on a small boy who stood next him ; where- 
upon Mr. Snodgrass, in a truly Christian spirit, and in order that he might take no 
one unawares, announced in a very loud tone that he was going to begin, and pro- 
ceeded to take off his coat with the utmost deliberation. He was immediately 
surrounded and secured ; and it is but common justice both to him and Mr. Win- 
kle to say, that they did not make the slightest attempt to rescue either themselves 
or Mr. Weller: who, after a most vigorous resistance, was overpowered by num- 
bers and taken prisoner. The procession then re-formed ; the chairmen resumed 
their stations ; and the march was re-commenced. 

Mr. Pickwick’s indignation during the whole of this proceeding was beyond all 
bounds. He could just see Sam upsetting the specials, and flying about in eveiy 
direction ; and that was all he could see, for the sedan doors wouldn’t open, and 
the blinds wouldn’t pull up. At length, with the assistance of Mr. Tupman, he 
managed to push open the roof ; and mounting on the seat, and steadying himself 
as w^ell as he could, by placing his hand on that gentleman’s shoulder, Mr. Pick- 
wick proceeded to address the multitude ; to dwell upon the unjustifiable manner 
in which he had been treated ; and to call upon them to take notice that his servant 
had been first assaulted. In this order they reached the magistrate’s house ; the 
chairmen trotting, the prisoners following, Mr. Pickwick oratorising, and the 
ijowd shouting. 


In the Aivful Presence. 


209 


CHAPTER XXV. 

.SHOWING, AMONG A VARIETY OF PLEASANT MATTERS, HOW MAJESTIC AND 
IMPARTIAL MR. NUPKINS WAS ; AND HOW MR. WELLER RETURNED MR. 
JOB trotter’s shuttlecock as heavily as it came. with ANOTHER 
MATTERj which WILL BE FOUND IN ITS PLACE. 

Violent was Mr. Weller’s indignation as he was borne along ; numerous were 
the allusions to the personal appearance and demeanour of Mr. Grummer and his 
companion : and valorous were the defiances to any six of the gentlemen present : 
in which he vented his dissatisfaction. Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle listened 
with gloomy respect to the torrent of eloquence wdiich their leader poured forth 
from the sedan-chair, and the rapid course of which not all Mr. Tupman’s earnest 
entreaties to have the lid of the vehicle closed, were able to check for an instant. 
But Mr. Weller’s anger quickly gave way to curiosity when the procession turned 
down the identical court-yard in which he had met with the runaway Job Trotter ; 
and curiosity was exchanged for a feeling of the most gleeful astonishment, when 
the all-important Mr. Grummer, commanding the sedan-bearers to halt, advanced 
with dignified and portentous steps to the very green gate from which Job Trotter 
had emerged, and gave a mighty pull at the beM-handle which hung at the side 
thereof. The ring was answered by a very smart and pretty-faced servant-girl, 
who, after holding up her hands in astonishment at the rebellious appearance of 
the prisoners, and the impassioned language of Mr. Pickwick, summoned Mr. 
Muzzle. Mr. Muzzle opened one half of the carriage gate, to admit the sedan, 
the captured ones, and the specials ; and immediately slammed it in the faces of 
the mob, who, indignant at being excluded, and anxious to see what followed, 
relieved their feelings by kicking at the gate and ringing the bell, for an hour 01 
two afterwards. In this amusement they all took part by turns, except three or 
four fortunate individuals, who, having discovered a grating in the gate which 
commanded a view of nothing, stared through it with the indefatigable persever- 
ance with which people will flatten their noses against the front vdndows of a 
chemist’s shop, when a drunken man, who has been run over by a dog-cart in the 
street, is undergoing a surgical inspection in the back-parlour. 

At the foot of a flight of steps, leading to the house door, which was guarded 
on either side by an American aloe in a green tub, the sedan-chair stopped. Mr. 
Pickwick and his friends were conducted into the hall, whence, having been pre- 
viously announced by Muzzle, and ordered in by Mr. Nupkins, they were ushered 
into the worshipful presence of that public-spirited officer. 

The scene was an impressive one, well calculated to strike terror to the hearts 
of culprits, and to impress them with an adequate idea of the stem majesty of the 
law. In front of a big book-case, in a big chair, behind a big table, and before 
a big volume, sat Mr. Nupkins, looking a full size larger than any one of them, 
big as they were. The table was adorned with piles of papers ; and above the 
further end of it, appeared the head and shoulders of Mr. Jinks, who was busily 
engaged in looking as busy as possible. The party having all entered. Muzzle 
carefully closed the door, and placed himself behind his master’s chair to await 
his orders. Mr. Nupkins threw himself back, with thi illing solemnity, and scruti- 
nised the faces of his unwilling visitors. 

“ Now, Grummer, who is that person ? ” said Mr. Nupkins, pointing to Mr. 
Pickwick, who, as the spokesman of his friends, stood hat in hand, bowing with 
the utmost politeness and respect. p 


210 


The Pickwick Clul. 


“This here’s Pickvick, your wash-up,” said Grummer. 

“ Come, none o’ that ’ere, old Strike-a-’ight,” interposed Mr. Weller, elbo^ung 
himself into the front rank. “ Beg your pardon, sir, but this here officer o’ youm 
in the gambooge tops, ’ull never earn a decent livin’ as a master o’ the ceremonies 
any vere. This here, sir,” continued Mr. Weller, thrusting Grummer aside, and 
addressing the magistrate with pleasant familiarity, “ This here is S. Pickvick, 
Esquire ; this here’s Mr. Tupman ; that ’ere’s Mr. Snodgrass ; and furder cn, 
next him on the t’other side, Mr. Winkle — all weiy nice genl’m’n, sir, as ycu’ll 
be wery happy to have the acquaintance on ; so the sooner you commits these 
here officers o’ youni to the tread-mill for a month or two, the sooner we shall 
begin to be on a pleasant understanding. Business first, pleasure arterwards, as 
King Richard the Third said wen he stabbed the t’other king in the Tower, afore 
he smothered the babbies.” 

At the conclusion of this address, Mr. Weller brushed his hat with his right 
elbow, and nodded benignly to Jinks, who had heard him throughout, with un- 
speakable awe. 

“ Who is this man, Grummer } ” said the magistrate. 

“ Wery desp’rate ch’racter, your wash-up,” replied Grummer. “ He attempted 
to rescue the prisoners, and assaulted the officers ; so we took him into custody, 
and brought him here.” 

“ You did quite right,” replied the magistrate. “ He is evidently a desperate 
ruffian.” 

“ He is my servant, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, angrily. 

“ Oh ! he is yoiu- servant, is he } ” said Mr. Nupkins. “ A conspiracy to 
defeat the ends of justice, and murder its officers. Pickwick’s servant. Put that 
down, Mr. Jinks.” 

Mr. Jinks did so. 

“ What’s your name, fellow ? ” thundered Mr. Nupkins. 

“Veller,” replied Sam. 

“ A very good name for the Newgate Calendar,” said Mr. Nupkins. 

This was a joke ; so Jinks, Grummer, Dubbley, all the specials, and Muzzle, 
went into fits of laughter of five minutes’ duration. 

“ Put down his name, Mr. Jinks,” said the magistrate. 

“Two L’s, old feller,” said Sam. 

Here an unfortunate special laughed again, whereupon the magistrate threat- 
ened to commit him, instantly. It is a dangerous thing to laugh at the wiong 
man, in these cases. 

“ Where do you live ” said the magistrate. 

“ Vare-ever I can,” replied Sam. 

“ Put down that, Mr. Jinks,” said the magistrate, who was fast rising into a rage. 

“ Score it under,” said Sam. 

“ He is a vagabond, Mr. Jinks,” said the magistrate. “ He is a vagabond on 
his own statement ; is he not, Mr. Jinks ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir.” 

“ Then I’ll commit him. I’ll commit him as such,” said Mr. Nupkins. 

“This is a wery impartial countiy for justice,” said Sam. “There ain’t a 
magistrate goin’ as don’t commit himself, twice as often as he commits other 
people.” 

At this sally another special laughed, and then tried to look so supematurally 
solemn, that the magistrate detected him immediately. 

“ Grummer,” said Mr. Nupkins, reddening with passion, “ how dare vou select 
such an inefficient and disreputable person for a special constable, as that man ? 
How dare you do it, sir ? ” 


SIX 


The Worthy Magistrate. 

“lam /ery sorry, your wash-up,” stammered Gnrmmer. 

“ Very soiry ! ” said the furious magistrate. “ You shall repent of this neglect 
of duty, Mr. Grummer ; you shall be made an example of. Take that fellow’s 
staff away. He’s drunk. You’re drunk, fellow.” 

“ I am not drunk, your worship,” said the man. 

“ You are drunk,” returned the magistrate. “ How dare you say you are not 
drunk, sir, when I say you are ? Doesn’t he smell of spirits, Grummer } ” 

“ Horrid, your wash-up,” replied Grummer, who had a vague impression that 
there was a smell of rum somewhere. 

“1 knew he did,” said Mr. Nupkins. “I saw he was drunk when he first 
came into the room, by his excited eye. Did you observe his excited eye, Mr. 
Jinks } ” 

“ Certainly, sir.” 

“ I haven’t touched a drop of spirits this morning,” said the man, who was as 
sober a fellow as need be. 

“ How dare you tell me a falsehood ? ” said Mr. Nupkins. “ Isn’t he drunk at 
this moment, Mr. Jinks ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir,” replied Jinks. 

“ Mr. Jinks,” said the magistrate, “ I shall commit that man, for contempt. 
Make out his committal, Mr. Jinks.” 

And committed the special would have been, only Jinks, who was the magis- 
trate’s adviser (having had a legal education of three years in a country attorney’s 
office) whispered the magistrate that he thought it wouldn’t do ; so the magistrate 
made a speech, and said, that in consideration of the special’s family, he would 
merely reprimand and discharge him. Accordingly, the special was abused, 
vehemently, for a quarter of an hour, and sent about his business : and Grummer, 
Dubbley, Muzzle, and all the other specials murmured their admiration of the 
magnanimity of Mr. Nupkins. 

“ Now, Mr. Jinks,” said the magistrate, “ swear Grummer.” 

Grummer was sworn directly ; but as Grummer wandered, and Mr. Nupkins’ 
dinner was near’.y ready, Mr. Nupkins cut the matter short, by putting leading 
questions to Urummer, which Grummer answered as nearly in the affirmative as 
he could. So the examination went off, all very smooth and comfortable, and 
two assaults were proved against Mr. Weller, and a threat against Mr. Winkle, 
and a push against Mr. Snodgrass. When all this was done to the magistrate’s 
satisfaction, the magistrate and Mr. Jinks consulted in whispers. 

The consultation having lasted about ten minutes, Mr. Jinks retired to his end 
of the table ; and the magistrate, with a preparatory cough, drew himself up in 
his chair, and was proceeding to commence his address, when Mr. Pickwick inter- 
posed. 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, for interrupting you,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ but before 
you proceed to express, and act upon, any opinion you may have formed on the 
statements which have been made here, I must claim my right to be heard, so 
far as I am personally concerned.” 

“ Hold your tongue, sir,” said the magistrate, peremptorily. 

“I must submit to you, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Hold your tongue, sir,” interposed the magistrate, “ or I shall order an officer 
to remove you.” 

“You may order your officers to do whatever you please, sir,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick ; “ and 1 have no doubt, from the specimen I have had of the subordination 
preserved amongst them, that whatever you order, they will execute, sir ; but I 
shall take the liberty, sir, of claiming my right to be heard, until I am removed 
by force.” 


211 


The Pickwick Club. 


Pickvick and principle ! ” exclaimed Mr. Well.-‘r, in a very audible voice. 

“ Sam, be quiet,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Dumb as a drum vith a hole in it, sir,” replied Sam. 

Mr. Nupkins looked at Mr. Pickwick with a gaze of intense astonishment, at 
his displaying such unwonted temerity ; and was apparently about to return a very 
angry reply, when Mr. Jinks pulled him by the sleeve, and whispered something 
in his ear. To this, the magistrate returned a half-audible answer, and then the 
whispering was renewed. Jinks was evidently remonstrating. 

At length the magistrate, gulping down, with a very bad grace, his disinclination 
to hear anything more, turned to Mr. Pickwick, and said sharply : “ What do 
you want to say ?” 

“ First,” said Mr. Pickwick, sending a look through his spectacles, under w’hich 
even Nupkins quailed. “ First, I wish to know what I and my friend have been 
brought here for ? ” 

“ Must I tell him ?” whispered the magistrate to Jinks. 

“ I think you had better, sir,” whispered Jinks to the magistrate. 

“An information has been sworn before me,” said the magistrate, “that it is 
apprehended you aie going to fight a duel, and that the other man, Tupman, is 
your aider and abettor in it. Therefore— eh, Mr. Jinks ?” 

“ Certainly, sir.” 

“Therefore, I call upon you both, to — I thinlc that’s the course, Mr. Jinks ?” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“ To — to — what Mr. Jinks ?” said the magistrate, pettishly. 

“To find bail, sir.” 

“ Yes. Therefore, I call upon you both — as I wa.'; about to say, when I was 
interrupted by my clerk — to find bail.” 

“ Good bail,” whispered Mr. Jinks, 

“ I shall require good bail,” said the magistrate. 

“ Town’s-people,” whispered Jinks. 

“ They must be town’s-people,” said the magistrate. 

“ Plfty pounds each,” whispered Jinks, “ and householders, of course.” 

“I shall require two sureties of fifty pounds each,” said the magistrate aloud, 
with great dignity, “ and they must be householders, of course.” 

“But, bless my heart, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, who, together with Mr. Tupman, 
was all amazement and indignation ; “we are perfect strangers in this town. 1 
have as little knowledge of any householders here, as I have intention of fighting 
a duel with anybody.” 

“I dare say,” replied the magistrate, “I dare say — don’t you, Mr. Jinks ?” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

“ Have you anything more to say ? ” inquired the magistrate. 

Mr. Pickwick had a great deal more to say, which he would no doubt have 
said, veiy little to his own advantage, or the magistrate’s satisfaction, if he had 
not, the moment he ceased speaking, been pulled by the sleeve by Mr. Weller, 
with whom he was immediately engaged in so earnest a conversation, that he 
sufiered the magistrate’s inquiry to pass wholly unnoticed. Mr. Nupkins was not 
the man to ask a question of the kind twice over ; and so, with another pre- 
paratoiy cough, he proceeded, amidst the reverential and admiring silence of the 
constables, to pronounce his decision. 

He should fine Weller two pounds for the first assault, and three pounds for the 
second. He should fine Winkle two pounds, and Snodgrass one pound, besides 
requiring them to enter into their own recognizances to keep the peace towards all 
his Majesty’s subjects, and especially towards his liege servant, Daniel Grummer. 
Pickwick and Tupman he had aheady held to bail. 


Adjournment to the Private Room. 21^ 

Immediately on the magistrate ceasing to speak, Mr. Pickwick, with a smils 
mantling on his again good-humoured countenance, stepped forward, and said : 

“I beg the magistrate’s pardon, but may I request a few minutes’ private 
conversation with him, on a matter of deep importance to himself ? ” 

“ What.? ” said the magistrate. 

Mr. Pickwick repeated his request. 

“This is a most extraordinary request,” said the magistrate. “A private . 
interview ? ” 

“ A private interview,” replied Mr. Pickwick, firmly ; “ only, as a part of the 
information which I wish to communicate is derived from my servant, I should 
wish him to be present.” 

The magistrate looked at Mr. Jinks ; Mr. Jinks looked at the magistrate ; 
the officers looked at each other in amazement. Mr. Nupkins turned suddenly 
pale. Could the man Weller, in a moment of remorse, have divulged some 
secret conspiracy for his assassination ? It was a dreadful thought. He was a 
public man ; and he turned paler, as he thought of Julius Caesar and Mr. Perceval. 

The magistrate looked at Mr. Pickwick again, and beckoned Mr. Jinks. 

“ What do you think of this request, Mr. Jinks .?” murmured Mr. Nupkins. 

Mr. Jinks, who didn’t exactly know what to think of it, and was afraid he might 
offend, smiled feebly, after a dubious fashion, and, screwing up the cornerr ot his 
mouth, shook his head slowly from side to side. 

“Mr. Jinks,” said the magistrate, gravely, “you are an ass.” 

At this little expression of opinion, Mr. Jinks smiled again — rather more feebly 
than before — and edged himself by degrees, back into his own corner. 

Mr. Nupkins debated the matter within himself for a few seconds, and then, 
rising from his chair, and requesting Mr. Pickwick and Sam to follow him, led the 
way into a small room which opened into the justice parlour. Desiring Mr. Pick- 
wick to walk to the upper end of the little apartment, and holding his hand upon 
the half-closed door, that he might be able to effect an immediate escape, in case 
there was the least tendency to a display of hostilities, Mr. Nupkins expressed his 
readiness to hear the communication, whatever it might be. 

“ I will come to the point at once, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ it affects yourself, 
and your credit, materially. I have every reason to believe, sir, that you are har- 
bouring in your house, a gross impostor ! ” 

“ Two,” interrupted Sam. “ Mulberry agin all natur, for tears and willainny ! ” 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ if I am to render myself intelligible to this gentle- 
man, I must beg you to control your feelings.” 

“ Wery sorry, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; “but when I think o’ that ere Job, 

I can’t help opening the waive a inch or two.” 

“ In one word, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ is my servant right in suspecting that 
a certain Captain Fitz-Marshall is in the habit of visiting here ? Because,” added 
Mr. Pickwick, as he saw that Mr. Nupkins was about to offer a very indignant 
interruption, “ because, if he be, I know that person to be a — ” 

“ Hush, hush,” said Mr. Nupkins, closing the door. “ Know him to be what, 
sir .5” 

“ An unprincipled adventurer-^a dishonourable character — a man who pre)^ 
upon society, and makes easily-deceived people his dupes, sir ; his absurd, his 
foolish, his wretched dupes, sir,” said the excited Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Dear me,” said Mr. Nupkins, turning very red, and altering his whole manner 
directly. “ Dear me, Mr — ” 

“ Pickvick,” said Sam. 

“ Pickwick,” said the, magistrate, “ dear me, Mr. Pickwick— pray take a scaJ— 
you cannot mean this ? Captain P'itz-Marsh<all ?” 


214 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Don’t call him a cap’en,” said Sam, “ nor Fitz-Marshall neither ; he ain’t 
neither one nor t’ other. He ’s a strolling actor, he is, and his name’s Jingle ; and 
if ever there was a wolf in a mulbeiry suit, that ere Job Trotter ’s him.” 

“It is veiv true, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, replying to the magistrate’s look of 
amazement ; “ my only business in this town, is to expose the person of whom we 
now speak.” 

Mr. Pickwick proceeded to pour into the horror-stricken ear of Mr. Nupkins, 
an abridged account of Mr. Jingle’s atrocities. He related how he had first met 
him ; how he had eloped with Miss Wardle ; how he had cheerfully resigned the 
lady for a pecuniary consideration; how he had entrapped himself into a lady’s 
boarding-school at midnight ; and how he (Mr. Pickwick) now lelt it his duty to 
expose his assumption of his present name and rank. 

As the narrative proceeded, all the warm blood in the body of Mr. Nupkins 
tingled up into the very tips of his ears. He had picked up the captain at a 
neighbouring race-course. ChaiTned with his long list of aristocratic acquaintance, 
his extensive travel, and his fashionable demeanour, Mrs. Nupkins and Miss 
Nupkins had exhibited Captain Fitz-Marshall, and quoted Captain Fitz-Marshall, 
and hurled Captain Fitz-Marshall at the devoted heads of their select circle of 
acquaintance, until their bosom friends, hlrs. Porkenham and the Miss Porken- 
hams, and Mr. Sidney Porkenham, were ready to burst with jealousy and despair. 
And now, to hear, after all, that he was a needy adventurer, a strolling player, 
and if not a swindler, something so very like it, that it was hard to tell the dif- 
ference ! Heavens ! What would the Porkenhams say ! What would be the 
triumph of Mr. Sidney Porkenham when he found that his addresses had been 
slighted for such a rival ! How should he, Nupkins, meet the eye of old Porken- 
ham at the next Quarter Sessions ! And what a handle would it be for the oppo- 
sition magisterial party, if the stoiy got abroad ! 

“ But alter all,” said Mr. Nupkins, brightening for a moment, after a long 
pause ; “ after all, this is a mere statement. Captain Fitz-Marshall is a man of 
very engaging manners, and, I dare say, has many enemies. What proof have 
you of the truth of these representations } ” 

“ Confront me with him,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ that is all I ask, and aU I 
require. Confront him with me and my friends here ; you wiU want no further 
proof.” 

“ Why,” said Mr. Nupkins, “ that might be very easily done, for he \vdll be 
here to-night, and then there would be no occasion to make the matter public, just 
—just — for the young man’s own sake, you know. I — I — should like to consult 
M'-s. Nupkins on the propriety of the step, in the first instance, though. At aU 
events, Mr. Pickwick, we must despatch this legal business before we can do any- 
thing else. Pray step back into the next room.” 

Into the next room they went. 

“ Grummer,” said the magistrate, in an awful voice. 

“ Your wash-up,” replied Grummer, with the smile of a favourite. 

“ Come, come, sir,” said the magistrate, sternly, “ don’t let me see any of this 
levity here. It^is veiy unbecoming, and I can assure you that you have very little 
to smile at. Was the account you gave me just now strictly true ? Now be care- 
ful, sir ? ” 

“ Your wash-up,” stammered Gnimmer, “ I — ” 

“Oh, you are onfused, are you?” said the magistrate. “Mr. Jinks, you 
observe this confusion ? ” 

“ Certainly, sir,” replied Jinks. 

“Now,” said the magistrate, “repeat your statement, Grumircr, and again I 
warn you to be careful. Mr. Jinks, take his words down.” 


Clearly Mr. Nuphins' s Fault. 215 

< — — 

The unfortunate trnimmer proceeded to re-state liis complaint, but, what 
between Mr. Jinks’s ..aking down his words, and the magistrate’s taking them up ; 
his natural tendency to rambling, and his extreme confusion ; he managed to get 
involved, in something under three minutes, in such a mass of entanglement and 
contradiction, that Mr. Nupkins at once declared he didn’t believe him. So the 
fines were remitted, and Mr. Jinks found a couple of bail in no time. And all these 
solemn proceedings having been satisfactorily concluded, Mr. Grummer was igno- 
miniously ordered out — an awful instance of the instability of human greatness, 
and the uncertain tenure of great men’s favour. 

Mrs. Nupkins was a majestic female in a pink gauze turban and a light brown 
wig. Miss Nupkins possessed all her mamma’s haughtiness without the turban, 
and all her ill-nature without the wig ; and whenever the exercise of these two 
amiable qualities involved mother and daughter in some unpleasant dilemma, 
as they not unfreqiiently did, they both concuired in laying the blame on the 
shoulders of Mr. Nupkins. Accordingly, when Mr. Nupkins sought Mrs. 
Nupkins, and detailed the communication which had been made by Mr. Pickwick, 
Mrs. Nupkins suddenly recollected that she had always expected something of 
the kind ; that she had always said it would be so ; that her advice was never 
taken ; that she really did not know what Mr. Nupkins supposed she was ; and so 
forth. 

“ The idea ! ” said Miss Nupkins, forcing a tear of very scanty proportions into 
the comer of each eye ; “ the idea of my being made such a fool of ! ” 

“ Ah ! you may thank your papa, my dear,” said Mrs. Nupkins ; “ how have I 
implored and begged that man to inquire into the Captain’s family connections ; 
how have I urged and entreated him to take some decisive step ! I am quite cer- 
tain nobcdy would believe it — quite.” 

** But, my dear,” said Mr. Nupkins. 

Don’t talk to me, you aggravating thing, don’t ! ” said Mrs. Nupkins. 

“ My love,” said Mr. Nupkins, “you professed yourself very fond of Captain 
Fitz-Marshall. You have constantly asked him here, my dear, and you have lost 
no opportunity of introducing him elsewhere.” 

“ Didn’t I say so, Henrietta } ” cried Mrs. Nupkins, appealing to her daughter, 
with the air of a much-injiu-ed female. “ Didn’t I say that your papa would turn 
round and lay all this at my door .? Didn’t I say so ? ” Here Mrs. Nupkins 
sobbed. 

“ Oh pa ! ” remonstrated Miss Nupkins. And here she sobbed too. 

“ Isn’t it too much, when he has brought all this disgrace and ridicule upon us, 
to taunt nu with being the cause of it .? ” exclaimed Mrs. Nupkins. 

“ How can we ever show ourselves in society ! ” said Miss Nupkins. 

“ How can we face the Porkenhams ! ” cried Mrs. Nupldns. 

“ Or the Griggs’s ! ” tried Miss Nupkins.' 

“ Or the Slummintowkens ! ” cried Mrs. Nupkins. “ But what does your papa 
care ! What is it to him ! ” At this dreadful reflection, Mrs. Nupkins wept with 
mental anguish, and Miss Nupkins followed on the same side. 

Mrs. Nupkins’s tears continued to gush forth, with great velocity, until she had 
gained a little time to think the matter over : wdien she decided, in her own mind, 
that the best thing to do would be to ask Mr. Pickwick and his friends to remain 
until the Captain’s arrival and then to give Mr. Pickwick the opportunity he 
sought. If it appeared that he had spoken tnily, the Captain could be turned out 
of the house without noising the matter abroad, and they could easily account to 
the Porkenhams for his disappearance, by saying that he had been appointed, 
through the Corn" influence of his family, to the Governor-Generalship of Sierra 
Leoiie, or Saugur Point, or any other of those salubrious climates which enchant 


2i6 


The Pickwick Club. 


Europeans so much that, when they once get there, they can hardly ever prevail 
upon themselves to come back again. 

When Mrs. Nupkins dried up her tears. Miss Nupkins dried up hers, and Mr. 
Nupkins was very glad to settle the matter as Mrs. Nupkins had proposed. So 
Mr. Pickwick and his friends, having washed off all marks of their late encounter, 
were introduced to the ladies, and soon aftenvards to their dinner ; and Mr. Wei 
ler, whom the magistrate with his peculiar sagacity had discovered in half an hour 
to be one of the finest fellows alive, was consigned to the care and guardianship of 
Mr. Muzzle, who was specially enjoined to take him below, and make much of 
him. 

“How de do, sir?” said Mr. Muzzle, as he conducted Mr. Weller down the 
kitchen stairs. 

“Why, no con-siderable change has taken place in the state of my system, 
since I see you cocked up behind your governor’s chair in the parlour, a little vile 
ago,” replied Sam. 

“ You will excuse my not taking more notice of you then,” said Mr. Muzzle. 
“You see, master hadn’t introduced us, then. Lord, how fond he is of you, Mr. 
Weller, to be sure !” 

“ Ah,” said Sam, “ what a pleasant chap he is ! ” 

“ Ain’t he ?” replied Mr. Muzzle. 

“ So much humour,” said Sam. 

“ And such a man to speak,” said Mr. Muzzle. “ How his ideas flow, donH 
they ? ” 

“ Wonderful,” replied Sam ; “ they come’s a pouring out, knocking each other’s 
heads so fast, that they seems to stun one another ; you hardly know what he ’s 
arter, do you ?” 

“That ’s the great merit of his style of speaking,” rejoined Mr. Muzzle “Take 
care of the last step, Mr. Weller. Would you like to wash your hands, sir, before 
we join the ladies ? Here’s a sink, with the water laid on, sir, and a clean jack 
towel behind the door.” 

“ Ah ! perhaps I may as wel have a rinse,” replied Mr. Weller, applying plenty 
of yellow soap to the towel, and rubbing away, till his face shone again. “ How 
many ladies are there ?” 

“ Only two in our kitchen,” said Mr. Muzzle, “ cook and ’ousemaid. We 
keep a boy to do the dirty work, and a gal besides, but they dine in the washus.” 

“ Oh, they dines in the washus, do they ?” said Mr. Weller. 

“Yes,” replied Mr. Muzzle, “ we tried ’em at our table when they first come, 
but we couldn’t keep ’em. The gal’s manners is dreadful vulgar ; and the boy 
breathes so very hard while he ’s eating, that we found it impossible to sit at table 
A'ith him.” , 

“ Young grampus !” said Mr. Weller. 

“ Oh, dreadful,” rejoined Mr. Muzzle ; “ but that is the worst of country sei- 
viofi, Mr. Weller ; the juniors is always so very savage. This way, sir, if yoi 
please ; this way.” 

Preceding Mr. Weller, with the utmost politeness, Mr. Muzzle conducted him 
into the kitchen. 

“Mary,” said Mr. Muzzle to the pretty servant-girl, “this is Mr. Weller: a 
gentleman as master has sent down, to be made as comfortable as possible.” 

“ And your master ’s a knowin’ hand, and has just sent me to the right 
place,” said Mr. Weller, with a glance of admiration at Mary. “ If I wos 
master c’ this here house, I should alvays find the materials for comfort vere 
Mary wos,” 

“ Lor, Mr. Weller !” said Mary, blushing. 


Mr. Weller Below Stairs. 


2y 

• Well, I never !” ejaculated the cook. 

“ Bless me, cook, I forgot you,” said Mr. Muzzle. “ Mr. Weller, let ms intro- 
duce you.” 

“ How are you, ma’am,” said Mr. Weller. “ Werry glad to see you. indeed, 
and hope our acquaintance may be a long ’un, as the gen’lm’n said to the 
fi’ pun’ note.” 

When this ceremony of introduction had been gone through, the cook and 
Mary retired into the back kitchen to titter, for ten minutes ; then retvnning, all 
giggles and blushes, they sat down to dinner. 

Air. W eller’s easy manners and conversational powers had such irresistible influ- 
ence with his new friends, that before the dinner was half over, they were on foot- 
ing of perfect intimacy, and in possession of a full account of the delinquency ol 
Job Trotter. 

“ I never could a-bear that Job,” said Mary. 

“ No more you never ought to, my dear,” replied Air. Weller. 

“ Why not ?” inquired Mary. 

“Cos ugliness and svindlin’ never ought to be formiliar vith elegance and 
wirtew,” replied Mr. Weller. “ Ought they, Air. Muzzle .? ” 

“ Not by no means,” replied that gentleman. 

Here Alary laughed, and said the cook had made her ; and the cook laughed, 
and said she hadn’t. 

“ I han’t got a glass,” said Mary. 

“Drink with me, my dear,” said Mr. Weller. “Put your lips to this here 
tumbler, and then I can kiss you by deputy.” 

“ For shame. Air. Weller I” said Mary. 

“ What ’s a shame, my dear ?” 

“ Talkin’ in that way.” 

“ Nonsense ; it ain’t no harm. It’s natur ; ain’t it, cook ?” 

“ Don’t ask me imperence,” replied the cook in a high state of delight : and 
hereupon the cook and Mary laughed again, till what between the b;'er, and the 
cold meat, and the laughter combined, the latter young lady was brought to the 
verge of choking — an alarming crisis from which she was only recovered by sundry 
pats on the back, and other necessary attentions, most delicately administered by 
Air. Samuel Weller. 

In the midst of all this jolity and conviviality, a loud ring was heard at the 
garden-gate : to which the young gentleman who took his meals in the wash-house, 
immediately responded. Mr. Weller was in the height of his attentions to the 
pretty house-maid ; Mr. Muzzle was busy doing the honours of the table ; and the 
cook had just paused to laugh, in the very act of raising a huge morsel to her lips ; 
when the kitchen-door opened, and in walked Air. Job Trotter. 

We have said in walked Mr. Job Trotter, but the statement is not distinguished 
by our usual scrupulous adherence to fact. The door opened and Mr. Trotter 
appeared. He would have walked in, and was in the very act of doing so, indeed, 
when catching sight of Mr. Weller, he involuntarily slirank back a pace or two, 
and stood gazing on the unexpected scene before him, perfectly motionless with 
amazement and terror. 

“Here he is !” said Sam, rising with great glee. “Why we were that wery 
moment a speaking o’ you. How are you 1 Where have you been .? Come in.” 

I.aying his hand on the mulberry collar of the unresisting Job, Air. Wellel 
dragged him into the kitchen ; and, locking the door, handed the key to Mr. 
Aluzzle, who very coolly buttoned it up in a side-pocket. 

“ Well, here ’s a game !” cried Sam. “ Only think o’ my master havin’ the 
pleasure o’ meeting your’n, up stairs, and me havin’ the joy o’ meetin’ you down 


4i8 


The Pickwick Club. 


here, llow are yor gettin’ on, and how is the chandlery bis’ness likely to do i 
Wei, I am so glad to see you. How happy you look. It ’s quite a treat to see 
you ; ain’t it, Mr. Muzzle 

“Quite,” said Mr. Muzzle. 

“ So cheerful he is !” said Sam. 

“ In such good spirits ! ” said Muzzle. 

“ And so glad to see us — that makes it so much more comfortable,” said Sam. 
“ Sit down ; sit down.” 

Mr. Trotter suffered himself to be forced into a chair by the fireside. He cast 
his small eyes, first on Mr. Weller, and then on Mr. Muzzle, but said nothing. 

“ Well, now,” said Sam, “ afore these here ladies, I should jest like to ask you, 
as a sort of curiosity, wether you don’t con-sider yourself as nice and well-behaved 
a young gen’lm’n, as ever used a pink check pocket-handkerchief, and the number 
four collection ?” 

“ And as was ever a-going to be manied to a cook,” said that lady, indignantly, 
“ The willin !” 

“And leave off his evil ways, and set up in the chandlery line, arterwards,” said 
the house-maid. 

“ Now, I ’ll tell you what it is, young man,” said Mr. Muzzle, solemnly, enraged 
at the last two allusions, “ this here lady (pointing to the cook) keeps company 
with me ; and when you presume, sir, to talk of keeping chandlers’ shops with her, 
you injure me in one of the most delicatest points in which one man can injure 
another. Do you understand me, sir 

Here Mr. Muzzle, who had a great notion of his eloquence, in which he imitated 
his master, paused for a reply. 

But Air. Trotter made no reply. So Air. Aluzzle proceeded in a solemn manner . 

“ It’s very probable, sir, that you won’t be wanted up stairs for several minutes, 
%ir, because my master is at this moment particularly engaged in settling the hash 
of your master, sir ; and therefore you’ll have leisure, sir, for a little private taUc 
ft^ith me, sir. Do you understand me, sir 

Mr. Muzzle again paused for a reply ; and again Air. Trotter disappointed 
him. 

“Well, then,” said Mr. Muzzle, “I’m very sorry to have to explain myseH 
before ladies, but the urgency of the case will be my excuse. The back kitchen’s 
empty, sir. If you will step in there, sir. Air. Weller will see fair, and we can 
have mutual satisfaction ’till the bell rings. Follow me, sir!” 

As Air. Muzzle uttered these words, he took a step or two towards the door ; and 
by way of saving time, began to pull off his coat as he walked along. 

Now, the cook no sooner heard the concluding words of this desperate challenge, 
and saw Mr. Aluzzle about to put it into execution, than she uttered a loud and 
piercing shriek, and rushing on Air. Job Trotter, who rose from his chair on the 
instant, tore and buffeted his large flat face, with an energy peculiar to excited 
females, and twining her hands in his long black hair, tore therefrom about enough 
to make five or six dozen of the very largest-sized mourning-rings. Having accom- 
plished this feat with all the ardour which her devoted love for Mr. Muzzle in- 
spired, she staggered back ; and being a lady of very excitable and delicate feelings, 
she instantly fell under the dresser, and fainted away. 

At this moment, the bell rang. 

“That’s k>r you. Job Trotter,” said Sam ; and before Air. Trotter could offer 
remonstrance or reply — even be fore he had time to stanch the wounds inflicted by 
the insensible lady — Sam seized one arm and Air. Aluzzle the other; and one 
pulling before, a nd tlie other pushing beliind, they conveyed him up stairs, and 
mto the parlour. 


An Airy Leave-taking. 


219 


It was an impressive tableau. Alfred Jingle, Esquire, alias Captain Fitz- 
Marsliall, was standing near the door with his hat in his hand, and a smile on his 
face, wholly unmoved by his veiy unpleasant situation. Confronting him, stood 
Mr. Pickwick, who had evidently been inculcating some high moral lesson; for 
his left hand was beneath his coat tail, and his right extended in air, as was his 
wont when delivering himself of an impressive address. At a little distance, stood 
Mr. Tupman with indignant countenance, carefully held back by his two younger 
friends ; at the further end of the room were Mr. Nupkins, Mrs. Nupldus, and 
Miss Nupkins, gloomily grand, and savagely vexed. 

“ Wliat prevents me,” said Mr. Nupkins, with magisterial dignity, as Job was 
brought in : “ what prevents me from detaining these men as rogues and impos- 
tors ? It is a foolish mercy. What prevents me 

“Pride, old fellow, pride,” replied Jingle, quite at his ease. “Wouldn’t do — 
no go — caught a captain, eh ? — ha ! ha ! very good — husband for daughter — biter 
bit — make it public — not for worlds — look stupid — very ! ” 

“ Wretch,” said Mrs. Nupkins, “ we scorn your base insinuations.” 

“ I always hated him,” added Henrietta. 

“ Oh, of course,” said Jingle. “ Tall young man— old lover — Sidney Porken- 
ham — rich — fine fellow — not so rich as captain, though ? — turn him away — off with 
him — anything for captain — nothing like captain anywhere — all the girls — raving 
mad — eh. Job 

Here JMr. Jingle laughed very heartily ; and Job, rubbing his hands with de- 
light, uttered the first sound he had given vent to, since he entered the house — a 
low noiseless chuckle, which seemed to intimate that he enjoyed his laugh too 
much, to let any of it escape in sound. 

“ Mr. Nupkins,” said the elder lady, “ this is not a fit conversation for the ser- 
vants to overhear. Let these wretches be removed.” 

“ Certainly, my dear,” said Mr. Nupldns. “ Muzzle !” 

“ Your worship.” 

“ Open the front door.” 

“ Yes, your worship.” 

“ Leave the house !” said Mr. Nupkins, waving his hand emphatically. 

Jingle smiled, and moved towards the door. 

“ Stay !” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Jingle stopped. 

“I might,” said Mr. Pickwick, “have taken a much greater revenge for the 
treatment I have experienced at your hands, and that of your hypocritical friend 
there.” 

Job Trotter bowed with great politeness, and laid his hand upon his heart. 

“I say,” said Mr. Pickwick, growing gradually angry, “that I might have 
taken a greater revenge, but I content myself with exposing you, which I consider 
a duty I owe to society. This is a leniency, sir, wliich I hope you will re- 
member.” 

When Mr. Pickwick arrived at this point. Job Trotter, with facetious gravity, 
applied his hand to his ear, as if desirous not to lose a syllable he uttered. 

“ And I have only to add, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, now thoroughly angry, 
“ that I consider you a rascal, and a — a ruffian — and — and worse than any 
man I ever saw, or heard of, except that pious and sanctified vagabond in the 
mulberry liveiy.” 

“ Ha ! ha !” said Jingle, “ good fellow, Pickwick — fine heart — stout old boy— • 
but must not be passionate — bad thing, very — bye, bye — see you again some day 
— k'^eo up your spirits — now. Job— trot ! ” 

With these words, Mr. Jii\gle stuck on his hat in the old fashion, and strode out 


22U 


The Pickwick Club. 


of the room. Job Trotter paused, looked round, smiled, and then with a bow of 
mock solemnity to Mr. Pickwick, and a wink to Mr. Weller, the audacious slyness 
of which baffles all description, followed the footsteps of his hopeful master, 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Weller was following. 

“ Sir.” 

“ Stay here.” 

Mr. Weller seemed uncertain. 

“ Stay here,” repeated Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Mayn’t I polish that ere Job off, in the front garden ?” said Mr. Weller, 

“ Certainly not,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Mayn’t I kick him out o’ the gate, sir ?” said Mr. WeUer. 

“ Not on any account,” replied his master. 

For the first time since his engagement, Mr. Weller looked, for a moment, dis- 
contented and unhappy. But his countenance immediately cleared up ; for the 
wily Mr. Muzzle, by concealing himself behind the street door, and rushing vio- 
lently out, at the right instant, contrived with great dexterity to overturn both Mr. 
Jingle and his attendant, down the flight of steps, into the American aloe tubs 
that stood beneath. 

“ Having discharged my duty, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick to Mr. Nupkins, “ I will, 
with my friends, bid you farewell. While we thank you for such hospitality as we 
have received, permit me to assure you, in our joint names, that we should not 
have accepted it, or have consented to extricate ourselves in this way, from our 
previous dilemma, had we not been impelled by a strong sense of duty. We return 
to London to-morrow. Your secret is safe with us.” 

Having thus entered his protest against their treatment of the morning, Mr. 
Pickwick bowed low to the ladies, and notwithstanding the solicitations of the 
family, left the room with his friends. 

“ Get your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ It’s below stairs, sir,” said Sam, and he ran down after it. 

Now, there was nobody in the kitchen, but the pretty house-maid ; and as Sam’s 
hat was mislaid, he had to look for it ; and the pretty house-maid lighted him. 
They had to look all over the place for the hat. The pretty house-maid, in her 
anxiety to find it, went down on her knees, and tmned over all the things that 
were heaped together in a little corner by the door. It was an awkward comer. 
You couldn’t get at it without shutting the door first. 

“ Here it is,” said the pretty housemaid. “ This is it, ain’t it } ” 

“ Let me look,” said Sam. 

The pretty housemaid had stood the candle on the floor ; as it gave a very dim 
light, Sam was obliged to go down on his knees before he could see whether it 
really was his OAvn hat or not. It was a remarkably small comer, and so — it was 
nobody’s fault but the man’s who built the house — Sam and the pretty house-maid 
were necessarily very close together. 

“ Yes, this is it,” said Sam. “ Good bye ! ” 

“ Good bye ! ” said the pretty housemaid. 

“ Good bye ! ” said Sam ; and as he said it, he dropped the hat that had cost so 
much trouble in looking for. 

“ How awkward you are,” said the pretty house-maid. “ You’ll lose it again, 
if you don’t take care.” 

So, just to prevent his losing it again, she put it on for him. 

Whether it was that the pretty house-maid’s face looked prettier still, when 
it was raised towards Sam’s, or whether it was the accidental consequence of 
iheir being so near to each other, is matter of uncertainty to this day ; but Sam 
kissed her. 


Something Behind the Door. 221 

“ Yo j don’t mean to say you did that on purpose,” said the pretty housemaid, 
blushing. 

“ No, I didn’t then,” said Sam ; “but I will now.” 

So he kissed her again. 

“ Sam ! ” said Air. Pickwick, calling over the banisters. 

“ Coming, sir,” replied Sam, running up stairs. 

“ How long you have been ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ There was something behind the door, sir, which perwented oiu- getting if 
open, for ever so long, sir,” replied Sam. 

And this was the tirst passage of Mr. Weller’s first love. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

<VHICH CONTAINS A BRIEF ACCOUNT OF THE PROGRESS OF THE ACTION OF 
BARBELL AGAINST PICKWICK. 

Having accomplished the main end and object of his journey, by the exposure 
of Jingle, Air. Pickwick resolved on immediately returning to London, with 
the view of becoming acquainted with the proceedings which had been taken 
against him, in the mean time, by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg. Acting upon 
this resolution with all the energy and decision of his character, he mounted to 
the back seat of the first coach which left Ipswich on the morning after the memo- 
rable occurrences detailed a length in the two preceding chapters ; and accompanied 
by his three friends, and Mr. Samuel Weller, arrived in the metropolis, in perfect 
health and safety, the same evening. 

Here, the friends, for a short time, separated. Alessrs. Tupman, Winkle, and 
Snodgiass repaired to their several homes to make such preparations as might be 
requisite for their forthcoming visit to Dingley Dell ; and Air. Pickwick and Sam 
took up their present abode in very good, old-fashioned, and comfortable 
quarters : to wit, the George and Vulture Tavern and Hotel, George Yard, Lom- 
bard Street. 

Air. Pickwick had dined, finished his second pint of particular port, pulled his 
silk handkerchief over his head, put his feet on the fender, and thrown himselt 
back in an easy chair, when the entrance of Air. Weller with his carpet bag, 
aroused him from his tranquil meditations. 

“ Sam,” said Air. Pickwick. 

“Sir,” said Air. Weller. 

“ I have just been thinking, Sam,” said Air. Pickwick, “ that having left a good 
many things at Airs. Bardell’s, in Goswell Street, I ought to arrange for taking 
them away, before I leave town again.” 

“ Weiy good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ I could send them to Air. Tupman’s, for the present, Sam,” continued Mr. 
Pickwick, “ but before we take them away, it is necessary that they should be 
looked up, and put together. I wish you would step up to Goswell Street, Sam, 
and arrange about it.” 

“At once, sir ? ” inquired Air. Weller. 

“ At once,” replied Air. Pickwick. “And stay, Sam,” added Mr. Pickwick, 
pulling out his purse, “ There is some rent to pay. The quarter is not due till 
Christmas, but you maj pay it, and have done with it. A month’s notice termi' 


222 


The Pickwick Cluh, 


nates my tenancy. Here it is, written out. Give it, and tell Mrs. Bardell slie may 
put a bill up, as soon as she likes.” 

“ Weiy good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; “anythin’ more, sir ?” 

“ Nothing more, Sam.” 

Mr. Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something more ; 
slowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a couple ol 
inches, when Mr. Pickwick called out, 

“ Sam.” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door behind him. 

“I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavouring to ascertain how Mrs. Bardell 
herself seems disposed towards me, and whether it is really probable that this vile 
and groundless action is to be carried to .extremity. I say I do not object to your 
doing this, if you wish it, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Sam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the room. Mr. Pickwick drew 
the silk handkerchief once more over his head, and composed himself for a nap. 
Mr. Weller promptly walked forth, to execute his commission. 

It was nearly nine o’clock when he reached Goswell Street. A couple of can- 
dles were burning in the little front parlour, and a couple of caps were reflected 
on the window-blind. Mrs. Bardell had got company. 

Mr. Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty long interval — occupied by 
the party without, in whistling a tune, and by the party within, in persuading a 
refractory flat candle to allow itself to be lighted — a pair of small boots pattered 
over the floor-cloth, and Master Bardell presented himself. 

“ Well, young townskip,” said Sam, “ how’s mother } ” 

“ She’s pretty well,” replied Master Bardell, “ so am I.” 

“ Well, that’s a mercy,” said Sam ; “ tell her I want to speak to her, will you 
my hinfant femomenon } ” 

Master Bardell, thus adjured, placed the refractory flat candle on the bottom 
stair, and vanished into the front parlour with his message. 

The two caps, reflected on the window-blind, were the respective head-dresses 
of a couple of Mrs. Bardell’s most particular acquaintance, who had just stepped 
in, to have a quiet cup of tea, and a little warm supper of a couple of sets of 
pettitoes and some toasted cheese. The cheese was simmering and browning 
away, most delightfully, in a little Dutch oven before the fire ; the pettitoes 
were getting on deliciously in a little tin saucepan on the hob ; and Mrs. Bardell 
and her two friends weie getting on very well, also, in a little quiet conversation 
about and concerning all their particular friends and acquaintance ; when Master 
Bardell came back from answering the door, and delivered tlie message intrusted 
to him by Mr. Samuel Weller. 

“ Mr. Pickwick’s servant ! ” said Mrs. Bardell, turning pale. 

“ Bless my soul ! ” said Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ Well, I raly would not ha’ believed it, unless I had ha’ happened to ha’ been 
here ! ” said Mrs. Sanders. 

Mrs. Cluppins was a little brisk, busy-looking woman ; Mrs. Sanders was a big, 
fat, heavy-faced personage ; and the two were the company. 

Mrs. Bardell felt it proper to be agitated ; and as none of the three exactly 
knew whether, under existing circumstances, any communication, othei-wise than 
through Dodson and Fogg, ought to be held with Mr. Pickwick’s servant, they 
wei e all rather taken by surprise. In this state of indecision, obviously the first 
thing to be done, was to thump the boy for finding Mr. Weller at the door. So 
his mother thumped him, and he cried melodiously. 

“ Hold your noise — do — you naughty creetur ! ” said Mrs. BardelL 
Yes ; don’t worrit your poor mother,” said Mrs. Sanders. 


Mr. Weller s Great Discretion. 


223 


She’s quite enough to worrit her, as it is, without you, Tommy,” said Mrs. 
Ciuppins, with sympathising resignation. 

“ Ah ! worse luck, poor lamb ! ” said Mrs. Sanders. 

At all which moral reflections. Master Bardell howled the louder. 

“ Now, what shall I do ” said Mrs. Bardell to Mrs. Ciuppins. 

“/think you ought to see him,” replied Mrs. Ciuppins. “ But on no account 
without a witness.” 

“ / think two witnesses would be more lawful,” said Mrs. Sanders, who, like 
tlie other friend, was bursting with curiosity. 

“ Perhaps he’d better come in here,” said Mrs. Bardell. 

“To be sure,” replied Mrs. Ciuppins, eagerly catching at the idea ; “Walk 
in, young man ; and shut the street door first, please.” 

Mr. Weller immediately took the hint ; and presenting himself in the parlour, 
explained his business to Mrs. Bardell thus : 

“ Werry sorry to ’casion any personal inconwenience, ma’am, as the house- 
breaker said to the old lady when he put her on the fire ; but as me and my 
governor’s only jest come to town, and is jest going away agin, it can’t be helped 
you see.” 

“ Of course, the young man can’t help the faults of his master,” said Mr.*;. 
Ciuppins, much struck by Mr. Weller’s appearance and conversation. 

“ Certainly not,” chimed in Mrs. Sanders, who, from certain wistful glances at 
the little tin saucepan, seemed to be engaged in a mental calculation of the pro- 
bable extent of the petittoes, in the event of Sam’s being asked to stop supper. 

“ So all I’ve come about, is jest this here,” said Sam, disregarding the inter- 
ruption ; “ First, to give my governor’s notice — there it is. Secondly, to pay 
the rent — here it is. Thirdly, to say as all his things is to be put together, and 
give to anybody as we sends for ’em. Fourthly, that you may let the place as 
soon as you like — and that’s all.” 

“ Whatever has happened,” said Mrs. Bardell, “ I always have said, and 
always will say, that in every respect but one, Mr. Pickwick has always behaved 
himself like a perfect gentleman. His money always was as good as the bank : 
always.” 

As Mrs. Bardell said this, she applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and went 
out of the room to get the receipt. 

Sam well knew that he had only to remain quiet, and the women were sure to 
talk ; so he looked alternately at the tin saucepan, tlie toasted cheese, the wall, 
and the ceiling, in profound silence. 

“ Poor dear ! ” said Mrs. Ciuppins. 

* “ Ah, poor thing ! ” replied Mrs. Sanders. 

Sam said nothing. He saw they were coming to the subject. 

“ I rally cannot contain myself,” said Mrs. Ciuppins, “when I think of such 
perjury. I don’t wish to say anything to make you uncomfortable, young man, 
but your master’s an old brute, and I wish I had him here to teU him so.” 

“ I wish you had,” said Sam. 

“ To see how dreadful she takes on, going moping about, and taking no plea- 
sure in nothing, except when her friends comes in, out of charity, to sit with her, 
and make her comfortable,” resumed Mrs. Ciuppins, glancing at the tin saucepan 
and the Dutch oven, “ its shocking ! ” 

“ Barbareous,” said Mrs. Sanders. 

“ And your master, young man ! A gentleman with money, as could never 
feel the expense of a wife, no more than nothing,” continued Mrs. Ciuppins, with 
great volubility ; “why there ain’t the faintest shade of an excuse for his beha- 
riour ! Why don’t he marry her ? ” 


224 


The Pickwick Club. 


“Ah,” said Sam, “ to be sure ; that’s the question.” 

“ Question, indeed,” retorted Mrs. Cluppins ; “ she’d question him, if she ’d 
my spirit. Hows’ever, there is law for us women, mis’rable creeturs as they’d 
make us, if they could ; and that your master will find out, young man, to his 
cost, afore he’s six months older.” 

At this consolatoiy reflection, Mrs. Cluppins bridled up, and smiled at Mrs. 
Sanders, who smiled back again. 

“ The action’s going on, and no mistake,” thought Sam, as Mrs. Bardell re- 
entered with the receipt. 

“ Here’s the receipt, Mr. Weller,” said Mrs. Bardell, “ and here’s the change, 
and I hope you’ll take a little drop of sometliing to keep the cold out, if it’s only 
for old acquaintance’ sake, Mr. Weller.” 

Sam saw the advantage he should gain, and at once acquiesced ; whereupon 
Mrs. Bardell produced, from a small closet, a black bottle and a wine glass ; and 
so great was her abstraction, in her deep mental affliction, that, after filling Mr. 
Weller’s glass, she brought out three more wine glasses, and filled them too. 

“ Lauk, Mrs. Bardell,” said Mrs. Cluppins, “ see what you’ve been and done !” 

“ Well, that is a good one ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Sanders. 

“ Ah, my poor head ! ” said Mrs. Bardell, with a faint smile. 

Sam understood all this, of course, so he said at once, that he never could 
drink before supper, unless a lady drank with him. A great deal of laughing 
ensued, and Mrs. Sanders volunteered to humour him, so she took a slight sip 
out of her glass. Then, Sam said it must go all round, so they all took a slight 
sip. Then, little Mrs. Cluppins proposed as a toast, “ Success to Bardell agin 
Pickwick and then the ladies emptied their glasses in honour of the sentiment, 
and got very talkative directly. 

“ I suppose you’ve heard what’s going forward, Mr. Weller ? ” said Mrs 
Bardell. 

“ I ’ve heerd somethin’ on it,” replied Sam. 

“ It’s a terrible thing to be dragged before the public, in that way, Mr. 
Weller,” said Mrs. Bardell ; “ but I see now, that it’s the only thing I ought to 
do, and my lawyers, Mr. Dodson and Fogg, tell me, that with the evidence 
as we shall call, we must succeed. I don’t know what I should do, Mr. Weller, 
If I didn’t.” 

The mere idea of Mrs. Bardell’s failing in her action, affected Mrs. Sanders so 
deeply, that she was under the necessity of re-filling and re-emptying her glasi 
immediately ; feeling, as she said aftei-wards, that if she hadn’t had the presence 
of mind to do so, she must have dropped. 

“ Ven is it expected to come on ? ” inquired Sam. * 

“ Either in Febmary or March,” replied Mrs. Bardell. 

“ What a number of witnesses there’ll be, won’t there } ” said Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ Ah, won’t there ! ” replied Mrs. Sanders. 

“ And won’t Mr. Dodson and Fogg be wild if the plaintiff shouldn't get it ? ” 
added Mrs. Cluppins, “ when they do it all on speculation ! ” 

“ Ah ! won’t they ! ” said Mrs. Sanders. 

“ But the plaintiff must get it,” resumed Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ I hope so,” said Mrs. Bardell. 

“ Oh, there can’t be any doubt about it,” rejoined Mrs. Sanders. 

“Veil,” said Sam, rising and setting down his glass, “All I can say is, that 1 
wish you may get it.” 

•• Thank’ee, Mr. Weller,” said Mrs. Bardell fervently. 

“ And of them Dodson and Foggs, as does these sort o’ things on fipec,” con- 
tinued Mr. Weller, “ as well as for the other kind and gen’rous people o’ the same 


Filial A^'ection. 


225 


purfession, as sets people by the ears, free gratis for nothin’, and sets their clerks 
to work to find out little disputes among their neighbours and acquaintances as 
vants settlin’ by means o’ law-suits — all I can say o’ tlicm is, that I vish they had 
the revard I’d give ’em.” 

“ -A-h, I wish they had the reward that every kind and generous heart would be 
inclined to bestow upon them !” said the gratified Mrs. Bardell. 

“ Amen to that,” replied Sam, “and a fat and happy livin’ they’d get out of it! 
Wish you good night, ladies.” 

To the great relief of Mrs. Sanders, Sam was allowed to depart without any ^ 
reference, on the part of the hostess, to the pettitoes and toasted cheese : to which 
the ladies, with such juvenile assistance as Master Bardell could afford, soon after- 
wards rendered the amplest justice — indeed they wholly vanished before their 
strenuous exertions. 

Mr. Weller went his way back to the George and Vulture, and faithfully re- 
counted to his master, such indications of the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg, 
as he had contrived to pick up in his visit to Mrs. Bardell’s. An intemew with 
Mr. Perker, next day, more than confirmed Mr. Weller’s statement ; and Mr. Pick- 
wick was fain to prepare for his Christmas visit to Dingley Dell, with the pleasant 
anticipation that some two or three months afterwards, an action brought against 
him for damages sustained by reason of a breach of promise of marriage, would be 
publicly tried in the Court of Common Pleas : the plaintiff having all the advantages 
derivable, not only from the force of circumstances, but from the sharp practice of 
Dodson and Fogg to boot. 


CHAPTER XXVIT. 

SAMUEL WELLER MAKES A PILGRIMAGE TO DORKING, AND BEHOLDS HIS 

MOTHER-IN-LAW. 

There still remaining an interval of two days before the time agreed upon for the 
departure of the Pickwickians to Dingley Dell, Mr. Weller sat himself down in a 
back room at the George and Vulture, after eating an early dinner, to muse on 
the best way of disposing of his time. It was a remarkably fine day ; and he had 
not turned the matter over in his mind ten minutes, when he was suddenly stricken 
filial and affectionate ; and it occurred to him so strongly that he ought to go down 
and see his father, and pay his duty to his mother-in-law, that he was lost in astonish- 
ment at hisown remissnessin never thinldngof this moral obligation before. Anxious 
to atone for his past neglect without another hour’s delay, he straightway walked 
up stairs to Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for this laudable 
purpose. 

“ Certainly, Sam, certainly,” said Mr. Pickwick, his eyes glistening with 
delight at this manifestation of filial feeling on the part of his attendant ; “ cer- 
tainly, Sam.” 

Mr. WeUer made a grateful bow. 

“ I am very glad to see that you have so high a sense of your duties as a son, 
Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I always had, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ That’s a very' gratifying reflection, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, approvingly. 

“ Wery, sir,” replied Mr. Weller ; “ if ever I wanted anythin’ o’ my father, I 
always asked for it in a wery ’spectful and obligin’ manner. If he didn’l give it 

Q 


22(5 


The Pickuick Club. 


me, I took it, for fear I should be led to do anythin’ wrong, through not havin’ it. 
I saved him a world o’ trouble in this vay, sir.” 

“That’s not precisely what I meant, Sam,” sain TJh. Pickwick, shaking his 
head, with a slight smile. 

“All good feelin’, sir — the wery best intentions, as the gen’lm’n said ven he 
run away from his wife ’cos she seemed unhappy with him,” replied Mr. Weller 

“You may go, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Thank’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller ; and having made his best bow, and put 
on his best clothes, Sam planted himself on the top of the Arundel coach, anc 
journeyed on to Dorking, 

The Marquis of Granby in Mrs. Weller’s time was quite a model of a road-side 
public-house of the better class — ^just large enough to be convenient, and small 
enough to be snug. On the opposite side tf the road was a large sign-board on a 
high post, representing the head and shoulders of a gentleman with an apoplectic 
countenance, in a red coat with deep blue facings, and a touch of the same blue 
over his three-cornered hat, for a sky. Over that again were a pair of flags ; be- 
neath the last button of his coat were a couple of cannon ; and the whole formed 
an expressive and undoubted likeness of the Marquis of Granby of glorious memory 

The bar window displayed a choice collection of geranium plants, and a well* 
dusted row of spirit phials. The open shutters bore a variety of golden inscriptions, 
eulogistic of good beds and neat wines ; and the choice group of countrymen and 
hostlers lounging about the stable-door and horse-trough, afforded presumptive 
proof of the excellent quality of the ale and spirits which were sold within. Sam 
Weller paused, when he dismounted from the coach, to note all these little indica- 
tions of a thriving business, with the eye of an experienced traveller ; and having 
done so, stepped in at once, highly satisfied with everything he had observed. 

“ Now, then !” said a shrill female voice the instant Sam thnist his head in at 
the door, “what do you want, y'oung man 

Sam looked round in the dhection whence the voice proceeded. It came from 
a rather stout lady of comfortable appearance, who was seated beside the fire-place 
in the bar, blowing the fire to make the kettle boil for tea. She was not alone ; 
for on the other side of the fire-place, sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair, 
was a man in thread-bare black clothes, with a back almost as long and stiff as 
that of the chair itself, who caught Sam’s most particular and especial attention at 
once. 

He was a prim-faced, red-nosed man, with a long, thin countenance, and a 
semi-rattlesnake sort of eye — rather sharp, but decidedly bad. He wore very short 
trousers, and black-cotton stockings, which, like tlie rest of his apparel, were par- 
ticularly rusty. His looks were starched, but his white neckerchief was not, and 
its long limp ends straggled over his closely-buttoned waistcoat in a very uncouth 
and unpicturesque fashion. A pair of old, worn beaver gloves, a broad-brimmed 
hat, and a faded green umbrella, with plenty of whalebone sticking through the 
bottom, as if to counterbalance the want of a handle at the top, lay on a chair 
beside him, and, being disposed in a very tidy and careful manner, seemed to 
imply that the red-nosed man, whoever he was, had no intention of going away in 
a huny. 

To do tile red-nosed man justice, he would have been very far from wise if he 
had entertained any such intention ; for, to judge from all appearances, he must 
have been possessed of a most desirable circle of acquaintance, if he could have 
reasonably expected to be more comfortable anywhere else. The fire was blazing 
brightly under the influence of the bellows, and the kettle was singing gaily under 
the influence of both. A small tray of tea things was arranged on the table, a 
plate of hot buttered toast was gently simmering before the fire, and the red-nosc-u 


The Deputy Shepherd. 


22J 


man himself was busily engaged in converting a large slice of bread into the same 
a^eeable edible, through the instrumentality of a long brass toasting-fork. Beside 
him stood a glass of reeking hot pine-apple rum and water, with a slice of lemon 
in it ; and every time the red-nosed man stopped to bring the round of toast to his 
eye, with the view of ascertaining how it got on, he imbibed a drop or two of the 
hot pine-apple rum and water, and smiled upon the rather stout lady, as she blew 
the fire. 

Sam was so lost in the contemplation of this comfortable scene, that he suffered 
the first inquiry of the rather stout lady to pass unheeded. It was not until it had 
been twice repeated, each time in a shriller tone, that he became conscious of the 
impropriety of his behaviour. 

“ Governor in ?” inquired Sam, in reply to the question. 

“ No, he isn’t,” replied Mrs. Weller ; for the rather stout lady was no other 
than the quondam relict and sole executrix of the dead-and-gone Mr. Clarke; 
“ No, he isn’t, and I don’t expect him, either.” 

“ I suppose he’s a drivin’ up to-day.?” said Sam, 

“ He may be, or he may not,” replied Mrs. Weller, buttering the round of toast 
which the red-nosed man had just finished, “ I don’t know, and, what’s more, I 
don’t care. Ask a blessin’, Mr. Stiggins.” 

The red-nosed man did as he was desired, and instantly commenced on the 
toast with fierce voracity. 

The appearance of the red-nosed man had induced Sam, at first sight, to more 
than half suspect that he was the deputy shepherd of whom his estimable parent 
had spoken. The moment he saw him eat, aU doubt on the subject was removed, 
and he perceived at once that if he purposed to take up his temporaiy quarters 
where he was, he must make his footing good without delay. He therefore com- 
menced proceedings by putting his arm over the half-door of the bar, coolly 
imbolting it, and leisurely walking in. 

“ Mother-in-law,” said Sam, “ how are you ?” 

“ Why, I do believe he is a Weller !” said Mrs. W., raising her eyes to Sam’s 
face, with no very gratified expression of countenance. 

“ I rayther think he is,” said the imperturbable Sam ; “ and I hope this here 
reverend gen’lm’n ’ll excuse me saying that I wish I was the Weller as owns you, 
mother-in-law.” 

This was a double-barrelled compliment. It implied that Mrs. Weller was a 
most agreeable female, and also that Mr. Stiggins had a clerical appearance. It 
made a visible impression at once ; and Sam followed up his advantage by kissing 
his mother-in-law. 

“ Get along with you ! ” said Mrs. Weller, pushing him away. 

“ For shame, young man ! ” said the gentleman with the red nose. 

“No offence, sir, no offence,” replied Sam; “you’re wery right, though; it 
ain’t the right sort o’ thing, wen mothers-in-law is young and good looking, is it, sir ? ” 

“ It’s all vanity,” said Mr. Stiggins. 

“ Ah, so it is,” said Mrs. Weller, setting her cap to rights. 

Sam thought it was, too, but he held his peace. 

The deputy shepherd seemed by no means best pleased with Sam’s arrival ; and 
when the first effervescence of the compliment had subsided, even Mrs. Weller 
looked as if she could have spared him without the smallest inconvenience. How- 
ever, there he was ; and as he couldn’t be decently turned out, they all three sat 
down to tea. 

“ And how’s father .?” said Sam. 

At this inquuy, Mrs. Weller raised her hands, and turned up her eyes, as if the 
oubject were too painful to be alluded to. 


22?5 


The Pichwich Club. 


Mr. Stiggins groaned. 

“ What’s the matter w'h diat ’ere gen’lm’n inquired Sam. 

“ He’s shocked at the way your father goes on in,” replied Mrs. Weller. 

“ Oh, he is, is he said Sam. 

“ And with too good reason,” added Mrs. Weller, gravely. 

Mr. S iggins took up a fresh piece of toast, and groaned heavily. 

“ He is a dreadful reprobate,” said Mrs. Weller. 

“A man of wrath !” exclaimed Mr. Stiggins. He took a large semi-circular 
bite out of the toast, and gioaned again. 

Sam f;lt very strongly disposed to give the reverend Mr. Stiggins something to 
groan for, ^ut he repressed his inclination, and merely asked, “ What’s tlie old 
’un up to, now 

“ Up tr, indeed !” said Mrs. Weller. “ Oh, he has a hard heart. Night after 
night docs this excellent man— don’t frown, Mr. Stiggins ; I will say you are an 
excellent man — come and sit here, for hours together, and it has not the least 
effect upon him.” 

“ Well, that is odd,” said Sam ; “ it ’ud have a wery considerable effect upon 
me, if I wos in his place ; I know that.” 

“The fact is, my young friend,” said Mr. Stiggins, solemnly, “he has an 
obderrate bosom. Oh, my young friend, who else could have resisted the plead- 
ing of sixteen of our fairest sisters, and withstood their exhortations to subscribe 
to our noble society for providing the infant negroes in the West Indies with 
flannel waistcoats and moral pocket handkerchiefs ?” 

“ What’s a moral pocket ankercher ?” said Sam ; “ I never see one o’ them 
articles o’ furniter.” 

“Those which combine amusement with instruction, my young friend,” replied 
Mr. Stiggins : “ blending select tales with wood-cuts.” 

“ Oh, I know,” said Sam ; “ them as hangs up in the linen-drapers’ shops, 
with beggars’ petitions and all that ’ere upon ’em 

Mr. Stiggins began a third round of toast, and nodded assent. 

“ And he wouldn’t be persuaded by the ladies, wouldn’t he ?” said Sam. 

“ Sat and smoked his pipe, and said the infant negroes were — what did he say 
the infant negroes were said Mrs. Weller. 

“ Little humbugs,” replied Mr. Stiggins, deeply affected. 

“ Said the infant negroes were little humbugs,” repeated Mrs. Weller. And 
they both groaned at the atrocious conduct of the old gentleman. 

A great many more iniquities of a similar nature might have been disclosed, 
only the toast being all eaten, the tea having got very weak, and Sam holding out 
no indications of meaning to go, Mr. Stiggins suddenly recollected that he had a 
most pressing appointment with the shepherd, and took himself off accordingly. 

The tea-things had been scarcely put away, and the hearth swept up, when the 
London coach deposited Mr. Weller senior at the door ; his legs deposited him in 
the bar ; and his eyes showed him his son. 

“ What, Sammy !” exclaimed the father. 

“ What old Nobs !” ejaculated the son. And they shook hands heartily. 

“ Werry glad to see you, Sammy,” said the elder Mr. Weller, “ though how 
you’ve managed to get over your mother-in-law, is a mystery to me. I o^y vish 
you’d write me out the receipt, that’s all.” 

“ Hush !” said Sam, “ she’s at home, old feller.” 

“ She ain’t vithin bearin’,” replied Mr. Weller; “she always goes and blows 
up, down stairs, for a couple of hours arter tea ; so we ’ll just give ourselves a 
damp, Sammy.” 

Saying this, litir. Weller mixed two glasses of spirits and water, and produced a 


Arithmetical Pouters of the Red-nosed Man. 2^9 

couple of pipes. The father and son sitting down opposite each other : Sam ou 
one side ot the fire, in the high-backed chair, and Mr. Weller senior on the other, 
in an easy ditto : they proceeded to enjoy themselves with all due gravity. 

“ Anybody been here, Sammy ?” asked Mr. Weller senior, drily, after a long 
silence. 

Sam nodded an expressive assent. 

“ Red-nosed chap inquired Mr. Weller. 

Sara nodded again. 

“ Amiable man that ’ere, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, smoking violently, 

“ Seems so,” observed Sam. 

“ Good hand at accounts,” said Mr. Weller. 

“ Is he ? ” said Sam. 

“ Borrows eighteenpence on Monday, and comes on Tuesday for a shillin’ to 
make it up half a crown; calls again on Vensday for another half crown to make 
it five shillin’s ; and goes on, doubling, till he gets it up to a five pund note in no 
time, like them sums in the ’rithmetic book ’bout the nails in the horse’s shoes, 
Sammy.” 

Sam intimated by a nod that he recollected the problem alluded to by his 
parent. 

“So you vouldn’t subscribe to the flannel veskits said Sam, after another 
interval of smoking. 

“ Cert’nly not,” replied Mr. Weller ; “ what’s the good o’ flannel veskits to the 
young niggers abroad .? But I’ll tell you what it is, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, 
lowering his voice, and bending across the fire-place ; “I’d come down wery 
handsome towards strait veskits for some people at home.” 

As Mr. Weller said this, he slowly recovered his former position, and winked 
at his first-born, in a profound manner. 

“ It cert’nly seems a queer start to send out pocket ankerchers to people as 
don’t know the use on ’em,” observed Sam. 

“ They’re alvays a doin’ some gammon of that sort, Sammy,” replied his 
father. “ T’other Sunday I wos walkin’ up the road, wen who should I see, a 
standin’ at a chapel-door, with a blue soup-plate in her hand, but your mother- 
in-law ! I werily believe there was change for a couple o’ suv’rins in it, then, 
Sammy, all in ha’pence ; and as the people come out, they rattled the pennies 
in it, till you’d ha’ thought that no mortal plate as ever was baked, could ha’ 
stood the wear and tear. What d’ye think it was all for ? ” 

“For another tea-drinkin’, perhaps,” said Sam. 

“ Not a bit on it,” replied the father ; “ for the shepherd’s water-rate, Sammy.” 

“ The shepherd’s water-rate ! ” said Sam. 

“ Ay,” replied Mr. Weller, “there was three quarters owin’, and the shepherd 
hadn’t paid a farden, not he — perhaps it might be on account that the water 
wam’t o’ much use to him, for it’s wery little o’ that tap he drinks, Sammy, wery ; 
he knows a tiick worth a good half dozen of that, he does. Hows’ever, it warn’t 
paid, and so they cuts the water off. Down goes the shepherd to chapel, gives 
out as he’s a persecuted saint, and says he hopes the heart of the turncock as cut 
the water off, ’ll be softened, and turned in the right vay : but he rayther thinks 
he’s booked for somethin’ uncomfortable. Upon this, the women calls a meetin’, 
sings a h}Tnn, wotes your mother-in-law into the chair, wolunteers a col-lection 
next Sunday, and hands it all over to the shepherd. And if he ain’t got enough 
out on ’em, Sammy, to make him free of the water company for life,” said Mr. 
Weller, in conclusion, “ I’m one Dutchman, and you’re another, and that's all 
about it.” 

Mr. Weller smoked for some minutes in silence, and then resumed : 


2^0 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ The worst o’ these here shepherds is, my boy, that they reg’larly tiims the 
heads of all the young ladies, about here. Lord bless their little hearts, they 
thinks it’s all right, and don’t know no better ; but they're the wictims o’ gam- 
mon, Samivel, they’re the wictims o’ gammon.” 

“ I s’pose they are,” said Sam. 

“Nothin’ else,” said Mr. Weller, shaking his head gravely ; “and wot ag^a- 
wates me, Samivel, is to see ’em a wastin’ all their time and labour in makino 
clothes for copper-coloured people as don’t want ’em, and taking no notice ot 
flesh-coloured Christians as do. If I’d my vay, Samivel, I’d just stick some o’ 
these here lazy shepherds behind a heavy wheelbarrow, and run ’em up and down 
a tourteen-inch-wide plank all day. That ’ud shake the nonsense out of ’em, if 
anythin’ vould.” 

Mr. Weller having delivered this gentle recipe with strong emphasis, eked out 
by a variety of nods and contortions of the eye, emptied his glass at a draught, 
and knocked the ashes out of his pipe, with native dignity. 

He was engaged in this operation, when a shrill voice was heard in the passage. 

“Here’s your dear relation, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller; and Mrs. W. hurried 
into the room. 

“ Oh, you’ve come back, have you ! ” said Mrs. Weller. 

“ Yes,'my dear,” replied Mr. Weller, filling a fresh pipe. 

“ Has Mr. Stigglns been back ? ” said Mrs. Weller. 

“No, my dear, he hasn’t,” replied Mr. Weller, lighting the pipe by the in- 
genious process of holding to the bowl thereof, between the tongs, a red-hot 
coal from the adjacent fire ; “ and what’s more, my dear, I shall manage to 
surwive it, if he don’t come back at all.” 

“ Ugh, you wretch ! ” said Mrs. Weller. 

“Thank’ee, my love,” said Mr. Weller. 

“Come, come, father,” said Sam, “ none o’ these little lovins afore strangers. 
Here’s the reverend gen’lm’n a cornin’ in now.” 

At this announcement, Mrs. Weller hastily wiped off the tears which she had just 
begun to force on ; and Mr. W. drew his chair sullenly into the chimney comer. 

Mr. Stiggins was easily prevailed on, to take another glass of the hot pine- 
apple rum and water, and a second, and a third, and then to refresh himself 
with a slight supper, previous to beginning again. He sat on the same side as 
Mr. Weller senior ; and eveiy time he could contrive to do so, unseen by his 
wife, that gentleman indicated to his son the hidden emotions of his bosom, by 
shaking his fist over the deputy shepherd’s head ; a process which afforded his 
son the most unmingled delight and satisfaction, the more especially as Mr. 
Stiggins went on, quietly drinking the hot pine-apple rum and water, wholly un- 
conscious of what was going on. 

The major part of the conversation was confined to Mrs. Weller and the 
reverend Mr. Stiggins ; and the topics principally descanted on, were the virtues 
of the shepherd, the worthiness of his flock, and the high crimes and misde- 
meanors of everybody beside ; dissertations which the elder Mr. Weller occa- 
sionally interrupted by half-suppressed references to a gentleman of the name of 
Walker, and other running commentaries of the same kind. 

At length Mr. Stiggins, with' several most indubitable symptoms of having 
quite as much pine-apple rum and water about him, as he could comfortably 
accommodate, took his hat, and his leave ; and Sam was, immediately after- 
wards, shown to bed by his father. The respectable old gentleman wrung his 
hand feiA ently, and seemed disposed to address some observation to his son ; but 
on Mrs. Weller advancing towards him, he appeared to relinquish that intention, 
and abruptly bade him good night. 


231 


A Mild Course of Treatment recomm&nded. 

Sam was up betimes next clay, and having partaken of a hasty breakfast, pre- 
Di^ed to return to London. He had scarcely set foot without the house, when 
his hither stood before him. 

“ Goin’, Sammy ? ” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“ Oft at once,” replied Sam. 

“ I vish you could muffle that ’ere Stiggins, and take him with you,” said 
Mr. Weller. 

“I am ashamed on you !” said Sam, reproachfully; “what do you let him 
show his red nose in the Markis o’ Granby at all, for ? ” 

Mr. Weller the elder fixed on his son an earnest look, and replied, “’Cause 
I’m a mai-ried man, Samivel, ’cause I’m a married man. Wen you’re a married 
man, Samivel, you’ll understand a good many things as you don’t understand 
now ; but vether it’s worth while goin’ through so much, to learn so little, as 
the charity-boy said ven he got to the end of the alphabet, is a matter o’ taste. 
/ rayther think it isn’t.” 

“ Well,” said Sam, “ good bye.” 

“ Tar, tar, Sammy,” replied his father. 

“ I’ve only got to say this here,” said Sam, stopping short, “ that if /was the 
properiator o’ the Markis o’ Granby, and that ’ere Stiggins came and made toast 
in my bar, I’d — ” 

“ What interposed Mr. Weller, with great anxiety. “ What ?” 

“ — Pison his rum and water,” said Sam. 

“No!” said Mr. Weller, shaking his son eagerly by the hand, “would you 
raly, Sammy ; would you, though ? ’* 

“ I would,” said Sam. “ I wouldn’t be too hard upon him at first. I’d drop 
him in the water-butt, and put the lid on ; and if I found he was insensible to 
kindness, I’d tiy the other persvasion.” 

The elder Mr. Weller bestowed a look of deep, unspeakable admiration on his 
son : and, having once more grasped his hand, walked slowly away, revolving in 
his mind the numerous reflections to which his advice had giv«n rise. 

Sam looked after him, until he turned a corner of the road : and then set for- 
ward on his walk to London. He meditated, at first, on the probable consequences 
of his own advice, and the likelihood and unlikelihood of his father’s adopting it. 
He dismissed the subject from his mind, how’ever, with the consolatoiy reflection 
that time alone would show ; and this is the reflection we would impress upon 
the reader. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

A GOOD-HUMOURED CHRISTMAS CHAPTER, CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF A 
WEDDING, AND SOME OTHER SPORTS BESIDE: WHICH ALTHOUGH IN 
THEIR WAY, EVEN AS GOOD CUSTOMS AS MARRIAGE ITSELF, ARE NOT 
QUITE SO RELIGIOUSLY KEPT UP, IN THESE DEGENERATE TIMES. 

As brisk as bees, if not altogether as light as fairies, dii the four Pickwickians 
assemble on the morning of the twenty-second day of December, in the year of 
grace in which these, their faithfully-recorded adventures, were undertaken and 
accomplished. Christmas was close at hand, in all his bluff and hearty honesty ; 
it was the season of hospitality, merriment, and open-heartedness ; the old year 
was preparing, like an ancient philosopher, to call his friends around him, and 
uaidst the sound of feasting and r^vehy to pass gently and calmly away. Gay 


232 


The Pickwick Club. 


and merry was the time, and gay and merry were at least four of the numerous 
hearts that were gladdened by its coming. 

And numerous indeed are the hearts to v/hich Christmas brings a brief season of 
happiness and enjoyment. How many families, whose members have been dis- 
persed and scattered far and wide, in the restless struggles of life, are then re- 
united, and meet once again in that happy state of companionship and mutual 
good-will, which is a source of such pure and unalloyed delight, and one so incom- 
patible with the cares and sorrows of the world, that the religious belief of the 
most civilised nations, and the rude traditions of the roughest savages, alike 
number it among the first joys of a future condition of existence, provided for the 
blest and happy ! How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympa- 
tliies, does Christmas time awaken ! 

We write these words now, many miles distant from the spot at which, year 
after year, we met on that day, a merry and joyous circle. Many of the hearts 
that throbbed so gaily then, have ceased to beat ; many of the looks that shone so 
brightly then, have ceased to gloM^ ; the hands we grasped, have grown cold ; the 
eyes we sought, have hid their lustre in the grave ; and yet the old house, the 
room, the merry voices and smiling faces, the jest, the laugh, the most minute 
and trivial circumstances connected with those happy meetings, crowd upon our 
mind at each recurrence of the season, as if the last assemblage had been but 
yesterday ! Happy, happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of 
our childish days ; that can recal to the old man the pleasures of his youth ; that 
can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his 
own fire-side and his quiet home ! 

But w'e are so taken up and occupied with the good qualities of this samt 
Christmas, that w^e are keeping Mr. Pickwick and his friends waiting in the c' Id 
on the outside of the Muggleton coach, which they have just attained, well 
wrapped up in great-coats, shawls, and comforters. The portmanteaus and car- 
pet-bags have been stowed aw^ay, and Mr. Weller and the guard are endeavouring 
to insinuate into the fore-boot a huge cod-fish several sizes too large for it — which 
is snugly packed up, in a long brown basket, with a layer of straw over the top, 
and wiiich has been left to the last, in order that he may repose in safety on the 
half-dozen barrels of real native oysters, all the property of Mr. Pickwdck, which 
have been arranged in regular order at the bottom of the receptacle. The interest 
displayed in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance is most intense, as Mr. Weller and the 
guard tiy to squeeze the cod-fish into the boot, first head first, and then tail first, 
and then top upward, and then bottom upward, and then side-ways, and then 
long-ways, all of which artifices the implacable cod-fish sturdily resists, until the 
guard accidentally hits him in the very middle of the basket, whereupon he sud- 
denly disappears into the boot, and wdth him, the head and shoulders of the guard 
himself, who, not calculating upon so sudden a cessation of the passive resistance 
of the cod-fish, experiences a very unexpected shock, to the unsmotherable delight 
of all the porters and bystanders. Upon this, Mr. Pickwick smiles with great 
good-humour, and drawdng a shilling from his w^aistcoat pocket, begs the guard, 
as he picks himself otit of the boot, to drink his health in a glass of hot brandy 
and water ; at which the guard smiles too, and Messrs. Snodgrass, Winkle, and 
Tupman, all smile in company. The guard and Mr. Weller disappear for five 
miputes : most probably to get the hot brandy and water, for they smell very 
strongly of it, when they return, the coachman mop.nts to the box, Mr. Weller 
jumps up behind, the Pickwickians pull their coats round their legs and their 
shawls over their noses, the helpers pull the horse-cloths off, the coachman shouts 
out a cheery “All right,” and away they go. 

They have rumbled through the streets, and jolted over the stones, and at length 


Quite an Old-fashioned Ride. 233 

reach the wide and open country. The wheels skim over the hard and frosty 
ground ; and the horses, bursting into a canter at a smart crack of the whip, 
step along the road as if the load behind them : coach, passengers, cod-fish, 
oyster barrels, and all : were but a feather at their heels. They have descended a 
gentle slope, and enter upon a level, as compact and diy as a solid block of marble, 
two miles long. Another crack of the whip, and on they speed, at a smart 
gallop : the horses tossing their heads and rattling the harness, as if in exhilara- 
tion at the rapidity of the motion : while the coachman, holding whip and reins 
in one hand, takes off his hat with the other, and resting it on his knees, pulls 
jut his handkerchief, and wipes his forehead : partly because he has a habit of 
doing it, and partly because it’s as well to show the passengers how cool he is, 
and what an easy thing it is to drive four-in-hand, when you have had as much 
practice as he has. Having done this veiy leisurely (otherwise the effect would be 
materially impaired), he replaces his handkerchief, pulls on his hat, adjusts his 
gloves, squares his elbows, cracks the whip again, and on they speed, more merrily 
than before. 

A few small houses, scattered on either side of the road, betoken the entrance to 
some town or village. The lively notes of the guard’s key-bugle vibrate in the 
clear cold air, and wake up the old gentleman inside, who, carelully letting down 
t’ne window-sash half-way, and standing sentry over the air, takes a short peep out, 
and then carefully pulling it up again, informs the other inside that they’re going 
to change directly ; on which the other inside Wakes himself up, and determines to 
postpone his next nap until after the stoppage. Again the bugle sounds lustily forth, 
and rouses the cottager’r, wife and children, who peep out at the house-door, and 
watch the coach till it turns the corner, when they once more crouch round the 
blazing fire, and throw on another log of wood against father comes home ; while 
father himself, a full mile off, has just exchanged a friendly nod with the coach- 
man, and turned round to take a good long stare at the vehicle as it whirls away. 

And now the bugle plays a lively air as the coach rattles through the ill-paved 
streets of a country-town ; and the coachman, undoing the buckle which keeps his 
ribands together, prepares to throw them off the moment he stops. Mr. Pickwick 
emerges from his coat collar, and looks about him with gieat cariosity ; per- 
ceiving which, the coachman informs Mr. Pickwick of the name of the town, and 
tells him it was market-day yesterday, both of which pieces of information 
Mr. Pickwick retails to his fellow-passengers ; whereupon they emerge from their 
coat collars too, and look about them also. Mr. Winkle, who sits at the extreme 
edge, with one leg dangling in the air, is nearly precipitated into the street, as the 
coach twists round the sharp comer by the cheesemonger’s shop, and turns into 
the market-place; and before Mr. Snodgrass, who sits next to him, has recovered 
from his alarm, they pull up at the inn yard, where the fresh horses, with cloths 
cn, are already waiting. The coachman throws down the reins and gets down 
himself, and the other outside passengers drop down also : except those who have 
no gi eat confidence in their ability to get up again : and they remain where they 
are, and stamp their feet against the coach to warm them — looking, with longing 
eyes and red noses, at the bright fire in the inn bar, and the sprigs of holly with 
red berries which ornament the wdndow. 

But the guard has delivered at the corn-dealer’s shop the brown paper packet 
he took out of the little pouch which hangs over his shoulder by a leathern 
strap ; and has seen the horses carefully put to ; and has thrown on the pave- 
ment the saddle which was brought from London on the coach-roof; and has 
assisted in the conference between the coachman and the hostler about the ^ey 
mare that hurt her off-fore-leg last Tuesday ; and he and Mr. Weller are all right 
behind, and the coachman is all right in front, and the old gentleman inside, who 


234 


The Pickwick Club, 


has kept the window down full two inches all this time, has pulled it up again, 
and the cloths are off, and they are all ready for starting, except the “ two stout 
gentlemen,” whom the coacliman inquires after with some impatience. Hereupon 
the coachman, and the guard, and Sam Weller, and Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snod- 
grass, and all the hostlers, and every one of the idlers, who are more in number 
than all the others put together, shout for the missing gentlemen as loud as they 
can bawl. A distant response is heard from the yard, and Mr. Pickwick and 
Mr. Tupman come running down it, quite out of breath, for they have been having 
a glass of ale a-piece, and Mr. Pickwick’s fingers are so cold that he has been full 
five minutes before he could find the sixpence to pay for it. The coachman shouts 
an admonitory “ Now then, gen’lm’n ! ” the guard re-echoes it ; the old gentleman 
inside thinks it a very extraordinary thing that people will get down when they 
know there isn’t time for it; Mr. Pickwick struggles up on one side, Mr. Tupman 
on the other; Mr. Winkle cries “All right;” and off they start. Shawls are 
pulled up, coat collars are re-adjusted, the pavement ceases, the houses disappear, 
and they are once again dashing along the open road, with the fresh clear air 
blowing in their faces, and gladdening their veiy hearts within them. 

Such was the progress of Mr. Pickwick and his friends by the Muggleton 
Telegraph, on their way to Dingley Dell ; and at three o’clock that afternoon they 
all stood, high and dry, safe and sound, hale and hearty, upon the steps of the 
Blue Lion, having taken on the road quite enough of ale and brandy to enable 
them to bid defiance to the frost that was binding up the earth in its iron fetters, 
and weaving its beautiful net-work upon the trees and hedges. Mr. Pickwick was 
busily engaged in counting the barrels of oysters and superintending the disinter- 
ment of the cod-fish, when he felt himself gently pulled by the skirts of the coat. 
Looking round, he discovered that the individual who resorted to this mode of 
catching his attention was no other than Mr. Wardle’s favourite page, better known 
to the readers of this unvarnished histoiy, by the distinguishing appellation of the 
(at boy. 

“ Aha !” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Aha ! ” said the fat boy. 

As he said it, he glanced from the cod-fish to the oyster-barrels, and chuckled 
joyously. He was fatter than ever. 

“Well, you look rosy enough, my young friend,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“I’ve been asleep, right in front of the tap-room fire,” replied the fat boy, who 
had heated himself to the colour of a new chimney-pot, in the course of an hour’s 
nap. “Master sent me over with the shay-cart, to carry your luggage up to the 
house. He’d ha’ sent some saddle-horses, but he thought you’d rather walk, 
being a cold day.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Mr. Pickwick, hastily, for he remembered how they had 
travelled over nearly the same ground on a previous occasion. “Yes, we would 
rather walk. Here, Sam ! ” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Weller. 

“ Help Mr. Wardle’s servant to put the packages into the cart, and ther ride on 
with him. We will walk forward at once.” 

Having given this direction, and settled with the coachman, Mr. Pickwick and 
his three friends struck into the footpath across the fields, and walked briskly 
iway, leaving Mr. Weller and the fat boy confronted together for the first time. 
Sam looked at the fat boy with great astonishment, but without saying a word; 
and began to stow the luggage rapidly away in the cart, while the fat boy stood 
quietly by, and seemed to think it a very interesting aort of thing to see Mr. Weller 
working by himself. 

“ There,” said Sam, throwing in the last carpet-bag. “ There tb-^y are 1” 


Fine Frosty IFeather. 


235 

“ Yes,” said the fat boy, in a veiy satisfied tone, “ there they are.” 

“Veil, young twenty stun,” said Sam, “you’re a nice specimen of a prize boy, 
you are ! ” 

“ Thank’ee,” said the fat boy. 

“ You ain’t got nothin’ on your mind as makes you fret yourself, have you } ’* 
inquired Sam. 

“ Not as I knows on,” replied the fat boy. 

“ I should rayther ha’ thought, to look at you, that you was a labourin’ under 
an unrequited attachment to some young ’ooman,” said Sam. 

The fat boy shook his head. 

“ Veil,” said Sam, “ I’m glad to hear it. Do you ever diink anythin’ ? ” 

“ I likes eating, better,” replied the boy. 

“Ah,” said Sam, “ I should ha’ s’posed that ; but what I mean is, should you 
like a drop of anythin’ as ’d warm you ? but I s’pose you never was cold, wuth all 
them elastic fixtures, was you ?” 

“Sometimes,” replied the boy; “and I likes a drop of something, when it’s 
good.” 

“ Oh, you do, do you } ” said Sam, “ come this way, then ! ” 

The Blue Lion tap was soon gained, and the fat boy swallowed a glass of liquor 
without so much as winking ; a feat which considerably advanced him in Mr. 
Weller’s good opinion. Mr. Weller having tiansacted a similar piece of business 
on his own account, they got into the cart. 

“ Can you drive } ” said the fat boy. 

“ I should rayther think so,” replied Sam. 

“There, then,” said the fat boy, putting the reins in his hand, and pointing up 
a lane, “ it’s as straight as you can go ; you can’t miss it.” 

With these words, the fat boy laid himself affectionately dowm by the side of 
the cod-fish : and placing an oyster-barrel under his head for a pillow, fell asleep 
instantaneously. 

“ Well,” said Sam, “ of all the cool boys ever I set my eyes on, this here young 
gen’l’m’n is the coolest. Come, wake up young dropsy ! ” 

But as young dropsy evinced no symptoms of returning animation, Sam Weller 
sat himself down in front of the cart, and starting the old horse with a jerk of the 
rein, jogged steadily on, towards Manor Farm. 

Meanwhile, Mr. Pickwick and his friends having walked their blood into active 
circulation, proceeded cheerfully on. The paths were hard ; the giass was crisp 
and frosty ; the air had a fine, diy, bracing coldness ; and the rapid approach of 
the gjey twilight (slate-coloured is a better term in frosty w'eather) made them 
look forward with pleasant anticipation to the comforts which awaited them at 
their hospitable entertainer’s. It was the sort of afternoon that might induce a 
couple of elderly gentlemen, in a lonely field, to take off their great-coats and play 
at leap-frog in pure lightness of heart and gaiety ; and we firmly believe that had 
Mr. Tupman at that moment proffered “a back,” Mr. Pickwick would have 
accepted his offer \vith the utmost avidity. 

However, Mr. Tupman did not volunteer any such accommodation, and the 
friends w'alked on, conversing menily. As they turned into a lane they had to 
cross, the sound of many voices burst upon their ears ; and before they had even 
had time to fonri a guess to whom they belonged, they walked into the very 
centi e of the party who were expecting their arrival — a fact which was first notified 
to the Pickwickians, by the loud “ Hurrah,” which burst from old Wardle’s lips, 
when they appeared in sight. 

First, ther e was War dle himself, looking, if possible, more jolly than ever ; then 
there were Bella and her faitliful Trundle ; and, lastly, there were FraUy and some 


136 


The Pickwick CluV. 


eight or ten young ladies, who had all come down to the wedding, which was to 
take place next day, and who were in as happy and important a state as young 
ladies usually are, on such momentous occasions ; and they were, one and all, 
startling the fields and lanes, far and wide, with their frolic and laughter. 

The ceieinony A introduction, under such circumstances, was very soon per- 
formed, or we should rather say that the introduction was soon over, without any 
ceremony at all. In two minutes thereafter, Mr. Pickwick was joking with the 
young ladies who wouldn’t come over the stile while he looked — or who, having 
pretty feet and unexceptionable ankles, preferred standing on the top-rail for five 
minutes or so, declaring that they were too frightened to move — with as much 
ease and absence of reserwe or constraint, as if he had known them for life. It is 
worthy of remark, too, that Mr. Snodgrass offered Emily far more assistance than 
the absolute teiTors of the stile {although it was full three feet high, and had only 
a couple of stepping-stones) would seem to require ; while one black-eyed young 
lady in a very nice little pair of boots with fur round the top, was observed to 
scream very loudly, when Mr. Winkle offered to help her over. 

All this was very snug and pleasant. And when the difficulties of the stile were 
at last surmounted, and they once more entered on the open field, old Wardle 
infonned Mr. Pickwick how they had all been down in a body to inspect the 
furniture and fittings-up of the house, which the young couple were to tenant, 
after the Christmas holidays ; at which communication Bella and Tmndle both 
coloured up, as red as the fat boy after the tap-room fire ; and the young lady with 
the black eyes and the fur round the boots, whispered something in Emily’s ear, 
and then glanced archly at Mr. Snodgrass : to which Emily responded that she 
was a foolish girl, but turned veiy red, notwithstanding ; and Mr. Snodgrass, who 
was as modest as all great geniuses usually are, felt the ciamson rising to the crown 
of his head, and devoutly wished in the inmost recesses of his own heart that the 
young lady aforesaid, with her black eyes, and her archness, and her boots with 
the fur round the top, were all comfortably deposited in the adjacent county. 

But if they were social and happy outside the house, what was the warmth and 
cordiality of their reception when they reached the farm ! The veiy servants 
grinned with pleasure at sight of Mr. Pickwick ; and Emma bestowed a half- 
demure, half-impudent, and ail pretty, look of recognition, on Mr. Tupman, which 
was enough to make the statue of Bonaparte in the passage, unfold his arms, and 
clasp her within them. 

The old lady was seated in customary state in the front parlour, but she was 
rather cross, and, by consequence, most particularly deaf. She never went out 
herself, and like a great many other old ladies of the same stamp, she was apt to 
consider it an act of domestic treason, if anybody else took the liberty of doing 
what she couldn’t. So, bless her old soul, she sat as upright as she could, in 
her great chair, and looked as fierce as might be — and that was benevolent after 
all. 

“ Mother,” said Wardle, “ Mr. Pickwick. You recollect him ? ” 

“ Never mind,” replied the old lady with great dignity. “Don’t trouble Mr. 
Pickwick about an old creetur like me. Nobody cares about me now, and it’s 
very nat’ral they shouldn’t.” Here the old lady tossed her head, and smoothed 
down her lavender-coloured silk dress, with trembling hands. 

“ Come, come, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ I can’t let you cut an old 
friend in this way. I have come down expressly to have a long talk, and another 
rubber with you ; and we’ll show these boys and girls how to dance a minuet, before 
they’re eight-and-forty hours older.” 

The old lady was rapidly giving way, but she did not like to do it all at once , 
10 she only said, “ Ali '. I can’t hear him ! ” 


The JVedding Morning. J37 

“Nonsense, mothei,” said Wardle. “ Come, come, don’t be cross, there’s a 
good soul. Recollect Bella ; come, you must keep her spirits up, poor girl.” 

The good old lady heard this, for her lip quivered as her son said it. But age 
has its little infirmities of temper, and she was not quite brought round yet. So, 
she smoothed down the lavender-coloured dress again, and turning to Mr. Pick 
wick said, “ Ah, Mr. Pickwick, young people was very different, when I was a 
girl.” 

“ No doubt of that, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ and that’s the reason why I 
W'ould make much of the few that have any traces of the old stock,”— and saying 
this, Mr. Pickwick gently pulled Bella towards him, and best •'wing a kiss upon 
her forehead, bade her sit down on the little stool at her grandmother’s feet. 
Whether the expression of her countenance, as it was raised towards the old lady’s 
face, called up a thought of old times, or whether the old lady was touched by 
Mr. Pickwick’s affectionate good nature, or whatever was the cause, she was fairly 
melted ; so she threw herself on her grand-daughter’s neck, and all the httle ill- 
humour evaporated in a gush of silent tears. 

A happy party they were, that night. Sedate and solemn were the score of 
rubbers in which Mr. Pickwick and the old lady played together ; uproarious 
was the mirth of the round table. Long after the ladies had retired, did the hot 
elder wine, well qualified with brandy and spice, go round, and round, and round 
again ; and sound was the sleep and pleasant were the dreams that followed. It 
is a remarkable fact that those of Mr. Snodgrass bore constant reference to Emily 
Wardle ; and that the principal figure in Mr. Winkle’s visions was a young lady 
with black eyes, an arch smile, and a pair of remarkably nice boots with fur round 
the tops. 

Mr. Pickwick was awakened, early in the morning, by a hum of voices and a 
pattering of feet, sufficient to rouse even the fat boy from his heavy slumbers. He 
sat up in bed and listened. The female servants and female visitors were running 
constantly to and fro ; and there were such multitudinous demands for hot water, 
such repeated outcries for needles and thread, and so many half-suppressed 
entreaties of “ Oh, do come and tie me, there’s a dear !” that Mr. Pickwick in his 
innocence began to imagine that something dreadful must have occurred : when 
he grew more awake, and remembered the wedding. The occasion being an im- 
portant one he dressed himself with peculiar care, and descended to the breakfast 
room. 

There were all the female servants in a bran new uniform of pink muslin gowns 
with white bows in their caps, running about the house in a state of excitement and 
agitation which it would be impossible to describe. The old lady was dressed out in a 
brocaded gown which had not seen the light for twenty years, saving and excepting 
such truant rays as had stolen through the chinks in the box in which it had been 
lain by, during the whole time. Mr. Tmndle was in high feather and spirits, but 
a little nei-vous withal. The hearty old landlord was trying to look very cheerful 
and unconcerned, but failing signally in the attempt. All the girls were in tears 
and white muslin, except a select two or three who were being honoured with a 
private view of the bride and bridesmaids, up stairs. All the Pickwickians were 
in most blooming array ; and there was a terrific roaring on the grass in front of 
the house, occasioned by all the men, boys, and hobbledehoys attached to the 
farm, each of whom had got a white bow in his button-hole, and all of whom 
were cheering with might and main : being incited thereunto, and stimulated 
therein, by the precept and example of Mr. Samuel Weller, who had managed to 
become mighty popular already, and was as much at home as if he had been born 
on the land. 

A wedding is a licensed subject to joke upon, but there really is no great joke 


238 


The Pichvick Club. 


in die matter after all ; — we speak merely of the ceremony, and beg it to be dis- 
tinctly understood that we indulge in no hidden sarcasm upon a married life. 
Mixed up with the pleasure and joy of the occasion, are the many regrets at quit- 
ting home, the tears of parting between parent and child, the consciousness ol 
leaving the dearest and kindest friends of the happiest portion of human life, to 
encounter its cares and troubles with others still untried and little known : natural 
feelings which we would not render this chapter mournful by describing, and 
which we should be still more unwilling to be supposed to ridicule. 

Let us briefly say, then, that the ceremony was performed by the old clergyman, 
in the parish church of Dingley Dell, and that Mr. Pickwick’s name is attached to 
the register, still preserved in the vestry thereof ; that the young lady with the 
black eyes signed her name in a veiy unsteady and tremulous manner ; that 
Emily’s signature, as the other bridesmaid, is nearly illegible ; that it all went off 
in very admirable style ; that the young ladies generally thought it far less shock- 
ing than they had expected ; and that although the owner of the black eyes and 
the arch smile informed Mr. Winkle that she was sure she could never submit to 
anything so dreadful, we have the very best reasons for thinking she was mistaken. 
To all this, we may add, that Mr. Pickwick was the first who saluted the bride, 
and that in so doing, he threw over her neck a rich gold watch and chain, which 
no mortal eyes but the jeweller’s had ever beheld before. Then, the old church 
bell rang as gaily as it could, and they all returned to breakfast. 

“ Vere does the mince pies go, young opium eater ? ” said Mr. Weller to the 
fat boy, as he assisted in laying out such articles of consumption as had not beei 
duly arranged on the previous night. 

The fat boy pointed to the destination of the pies. 

“ Wery good,” said Sam, “ stick a bit o’ Chiistmas in ’em. T’other dish oppo- 
site. There ; now we look compact and comfortable, as the father said ven he 
cut his little boy’s head off, to cure him o’ squintin’.” 

As Mr. Weller made the comparison, he fell back a step or two, to give full 
effect to it, and surveyed the preparations with the utmost satisfaction. 

“ Wardle,” said Mr. Pickwick, almost as soon as they were all seated, “ a glass 
of wfue, in honour of this happy occasion !” 

“I shall be delighted, my boy,” said Wardle. “Joe — damn that boy, he’s 
gone to sleep.” 

“ No, I ain’t, sir,” replied the fat boy, starting up from a remote comer, where, 
like the patron saint of fat boys — the immortal Horner — he had been devouring a 
Christmas pie : though not with the coolness and deliberation which characterised 
that young gentleman’s proceedings. 

“ Fill Mr. Pickwick’s glass.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

The fat boy filled Mr. Pickwick’s glass, and then retired behind his master’s 
chair, from whence he watched the play of the knives and forks, and the progress 
of the choice morsels from the dishes to the mouths of the company, with a kind 
of dark and gloomy joy that was most impressive. 

“ God bless you, old fellow !” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Same to you, my boy,” replied Wardle ; and they pledged each other, 
heartily. 

“ Mrs. Wardle,” said Mr. Pickwick, “we old follcs must have a glass of wine 
together, in honour of this joyful event.” 

I'he old lady was in a state of great grandeur just then, for she was sitting at the 
top of the table in the brocaded gown, with her newly-married granddaughter on 
one side and Mr. Piokwick on the other, to do the carving. Mr. Pickwick had 
Qot spoken in a i ery loud tone, but she understood him at once, and drank off a 


full glass of wine to his long life and happiness ; after which the worthy old soul 
launched foith into a minute and particular account of her own wedding, with a 
dissertation on the fashion of wearing high-heeled shoes, and some particulars 
concerning the life and adventures of the beautiful Lady Tollimglower, deceased * 
at all ol which the old lady herself laughed very heartily indeed, and so did the 
young ladies too, for they were wondering among themselves what on earth grand- 
ma was talking about. When they laughed, the old lady laughed ten times more 
heartily, and said that these always had been considered capital stories : which 
caused them all to laugh again, and put the old lady into the very best of humours. 
Then, the cake was cut, and passed through the ring ; the young ladies saved 
pieces to put under their pillows to dream of their future husbands on ; and a 
great deal of blushing and merriment was thereby occasioned. 

“ Mr. Miller,” said Mr. Pickwick to his old acquaintance the hard-headed gen- 
tleman, “ a glass of wine ?” 

“ With great satisfaction, Mr. Pickwick,” replied the hard-headed gentleman, 
•olemnly. 

“ You’ll take me in ?” said the benevolent old clergyman. 

“ And me,” intei-posed his wife. 

“ And me, and me,” said a couple of poor relations at the bottom of the table, 
who had eaten and drank veiy heartily, and laughed at everything. 

Mr. Pickwick expressed his heartfelt delight at every additional suggestion ; and 
his eyes beamed with hilarity and cheerfulness. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick, suddenly rising. 

“ Hear, hear ! Hear, hear ! Hear, hear ! ” cried Mr. Weller, in the excitement 
cf his feelings. 

“ Call in all the seiwants,” cried old Wardle, interposing to prevent the public 
rebuke which Mr. Weller would otherwise most indubitably have received from 
his master. “ Give them a glass of wine each, to drink the toast in. Now, 
Pickwick.” 

Amidst the silence of the company, the whispering of the women servants, and 
the awkward embarrassment of the men, Mr. Pickwick proceeded. 

“ Ladies and gentlemen — no, I won’t say ladies and gentlemen. I’ll call you 
my friends, my dear friends, if the ladies will allow me to take so great a 
liberty ” 

Here Mr. Pickwick was interrupted by immense applause from the ladies, 
echoed by the gentlemen, during which the owner of tlie eyes was distinctly 
heard to state that she could kiss that dear Mr. Pickwick. Whereupon Mr. 
Winkle gallantly inquired if it couldn’t be done by deputy ; to which the young 
lady with the black eyes replied, ‘f Go away ” — and accompanied the request with 
a look which said as plainly as a look could do “ if you can.” 

“ My dear friends,” resumed Mr. Pickwick, “I am going to propose the health 
of the bride and bridegroom — God bless ’em (cheers and tears). My young 
friend. Trundle, I believe to be a very excellent and manly fellow ; and hi;s wife I 
know to be a very amiable and lovely girl, w^ell qualified to transfer to another 
sphere of action the happiness which for twenty years she has diffused around 
her, in her father’s house. (Here, the fat boy burst forth into stentorian blubberings, 
and was led forth by the coat collar, by Mr. Weller). I wish,” added Mr. 
Picktvick, “ I wish I was young enough to be her sister’s husband (cheers), but, 
failing that, I am happy to be old enough to be her father ; for, being so, I shall 
not be suspected of any latent designs when I say, that I admire, esteem, and 
love them both (cheers and sobs). The bride’s father, our good friend there, is a 
noble person, and I am proud to know him (great uproar). Pie is a kind, excel- 
lent, independent-spirited, fine-hearted, hospitable, liberal man (enthusiastu 


240 


The Pickwick Club. 


shouts from the poor relations, at all the adjectives ; and especially at the two 
last). That his daughter may enjoy all the happiness, even he can desire ; and 
that he may derive from the contemplation of her felicity all the gratiucation 
of heart and peace of mind which he so well deserves, is, I am persuaded, our 
united wish. So, let us drink their healths, and wish them prolonged life,' and 
every blessing ! ” 

Mr. Pickwick concluded amidst a whirlwind of applause ; and once more were 
the lungs of the supernumeraries, under Mr. Weller’s command, brought into 
active and efficient operation. Mr. Wardle proposed Mr. Pickwick ; Mr. Pick- 
wick proposed the old lady. Mr. Snodgrass proposed Mr. Wardle; Mr. Wardle 
proposed Mr. Snodgrass. One of the poor relations proposed Mr. Tupman, 
and the other poor relation proposed Mr. Winkle ; all was happiness and festi- 
vity, until the mysterious disappearance of both tire poor relations beneath the 
table, warned the party that it was time to adjourn. 

At dinner they met again, after a five-and-twenty mile walk, undertaken by 
the males at Wardle’s recommendation, to get rid of the effects of the wine at 
breakfast. The poor relations had kept in bed all day, with the view of attaining 
the same happy consummation, but, as they had been unsuccessful, they stopped 
there. Mr. Weller kept the domestics in a state of perpetual hilarity ; and the 
fat boy divided his time into small alternate allotments of eating and sleeping. 

The dinner was as hearty an affair as the breakfast, and was quite as noisy, 
without the tears. Then came the dessert and some more toasts. Then came 
the tea and coffee ; and then, the ball. 

The best sitting room at Manor Farm was a good, long, dark-panelled room 
with a high chimney-piece, and a capacious chimney, up which you could have 
driven one of the new patent cabs, wheels and all. At the upper end of the room, 
seated in a shady bower of holly and evergreens, were the two best fiddlers, and 
the only harp, in all Muggleton. In all sorts of recesses, and on all kinds of brackets, 
stood massive old silver candlesticks with four branches each. The carpet was 
up, the candles burnt bright, the fire blazed and crackled on the hearth and 
merry voices and light-hearted laughter rang through the room. If any of the 
old English yeomen had turned into fairies when they died, it was just the place 
in which they would have held their revels. 

If anything could have added to the interest of this agreeable scene, it would 
have been the remarkable fact of Mr. Pickwick’s appearing without his gaiters, 
for the first time within the memory of his oldest friends. 

“ You mean to dance ? ” said Wardle. 

“ Of course I do,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ Don’t you see I am dressed for 
the purpose ? ” Mr. Pickwick called attention_,to his speckled silk stockings, and 
smartly tied pumps. 

“ Vou in silk stockings ! ” exclaimed Mr. Tupman jocosely. 

“ And why not, sir — why not ? ” said Mr. Pickwick, turning warmly upon him. 

“ Oh, of course there is no reason why you shouldn’t wear them,” responded 
Mr. Tupman. 

“ I imagine not sir, I imagine not,” said Mr. Pickwick in a very peremptory 
tone. 

Mr. Tupman had contemplated a laugh, but he found it was a serious matter ; 
so he looked grave, and said they were a pretty pattern. 

“I hope they are,” said Mr. Pickwick fixing his eyes upon his friend. “You 
see nothing extraordinary in the stockings, as stockings, I trust sir ? ” 

“ Certainly not. Oh certainly not,” replied Mr. Tupman. He walked away ; 
and Mr. Pickwick’s countenance resumed its customary benign expression. 

“We are ail ready, I believe,” said Mr. Pickwick, who was stationed with the 


Down the Middle and up again, 24J 

old lady at the tqp of the dance, and had already made four false starts, in his 
excessive anxiety to commence. 

“ Then begin at once,” said Wardle. “ Now ! ” 

Up struck the two fiddles and the one harp, and off went Mi. Rckwick into 
hands across, when there was a general clapping of hands, and a cry of “ Stop, 
stop ! ” 

“ What’s the matter ! ” said Mr. Pickwick, who was only brought to, by the 
fiddles and harp desisting, and could have been stopped by no other earthly 
power, if the house had been on fire. 

“ WHiere’s Arabella Allen } ” cried a dozen voices. 

“ And Winkle } ” added Mr. Tupman. 

“ Here we are ! ” exclaimed that gentleman, emerging with his pretty com- 
panion from the comer ; as he did so, it would have been hard to tell which was 
the redder in the face, he or the young ladv with the black eyes. 

“What an extraordinary' thing it is, Winkle,” said Mr. Pickwick, rather pet- 
tishly, “ that you couldn’t have taken your place before.” 

“Not at all extraordinaiy,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a very expressive smile, as his eyes rested on 
Arabella, “well,* I don’t know that it was extraordinary, either, after all.” 

However, there was no time to think more about the matter, for the fiddles and 
harp began in real earnest. Away went Mr. Pickwick — hands across — down the 
middle to the very end of the room, and half-way up the chimney, back again to 
the door — poussette everywhere — loud stamp on the ground — ready for the next 
couple — ofiF again — all the figure over c ice more — another stamp to beat out the 
time — next couple, and the next, and the next again — never was such going ! At 
last, after they had reached the bottom of the dance, and full fourteen couple after 
the old lady had retired in an exhausted state, and the clergyman’s wife had been 
substituted in her stead, did that gentleman, when there was no demand whatever 
on his exertions, keep perpetually dancing in his place, to keep time to the music : 
smiling on his partner all the while with a blandness of demeanour which baffles 
all description. 

Long before Mr. Pickwick was weary of dancing, the newly-married couple had 
retired from the scene. There was a glorious supper down-stairs, notwithstanding, 
and a good long sitting after it ; and when Mr. Pickwick awoke, late the next 
morning, he had a confused recollection of having, severally and confidentially, 
invited somewhere about five-and-forty people to dine with him at the George and 
Vulture, the very first time they came to London ; which Mr. Pickwick rightly 
considered a pretty certain indication of his having taken something besides 
exercise, on the previous night. 

“ And so your family has games in the kitchen to-night, my dear, has they ” 
inquired Sam of Emma. 

“Yes, Mr. Weller,” replied Emma; “we always have on Christmas eve. 
Master wouldn’t neglect to keep it up on any account.” 

“Your master’s a wery pretty notion of keepin* anythin’ up, my dear,” said 
Mr. Weller ; “ I never see such a sensible sort of man as he is, or such a reg’lar 
gen’l’m’n.” 

“ Oh, that he is ! ” said the fat boy, joining in the conversation ; “ don’t he 
breed nice pork ! ” The fat youth gave a semi-cannibalic leei at Mr. Weller, as 
he thought of the roast legs and gravy. 

“ Oh, you’ve woke up, at last, have you said Sam. 

The fat boy nodded. 

“ I’ll tell you what it is, young boa constructor,” said Mr. Weller, impressive? v ; 
“ if you don’t sleep a little less, and exercise a little more, wen you comes tc .“<• 


The Pickwick Club, 


242 

a man you’ll lay yourself open to the same sort of personal inconwenience as was 
inflicted on the old gen’l’m’n as wore the pigtail.” 

“ What did they do to him ? ” inquired the fat boy, in a faltering voice. 

“I’m a-goin’ to tell you,” replied Mr. Weller; “he was one o’ the lajgest 
patterns as was ever turned out — reg’lar fat man, as hadn’t caught a glimj)se of 
nis own shoes for five-and- forty-year.” 

“ Lor ! ” exclaimed Emma. 

“ No, that he hadn’t, my dear,” said Mr. WeUer ; “ and if you’d put an exact 
model of his own legs on the dinin’ table afore him, he wouldn’t ha’ known ’em. 
Well, he always walks to his office with a wery handsome gold watch-chain hang- 
ing out, about a foot and a quarter, and a gold w^atch in his fob pocket as was 
worth — I’m afraid to say how much, but as much as a watch can be— a large, 
heavy, round manafacter, as stout for a watch, as he was for a man, and with a 
big face in proportion. ‘You’d better not carry that ’ere watch,’ says the old 
gen’l’m’n’s friends, ‘you’ll be robbed on it,’ says they. ‘Shall I.?’ says he. 
* Yes, you will,’ says they. ‘Veil,’ says he, ‘ I should like to see the thief as could 
get this here watch out, for I’m blest if / ever can, it’s such a tight fit,’ says he ; 
•and venever I wants to know what’s o’clock, I’m obliged to stare into the 
bakers’ shops,’ he says. Well, then he laughs as hearty as if he was a goin’ to 
pieces, and out he walks agin’ with his powdered head and pigtail, and rolls down 
the Strand vith the chain hangin’ out furder than ever, and the great round watch 
almost bustin’ through his grey kersey smalls. There wam’t a pickpocket in all 
London as didn’t take a pull at that chain, but the chain ’ud never break, and the 
watch ’ud never come out, so they soon got tired o’ dragging such a heavy old 
gen’l’m’n along the pavement, and he’d go home and laugh till the pigtail 
wibrated like the penderlum of a Dutch clock. At last, one day the old gen’l’m’n 
was a rollin’ along, and he sees a pickpocket as he know d by sight, a-comin’ up, 
arm in arm vith a little boy vith a wery large head. ‘ Here’s a game,’ says the old 
gen’l’m’n to himself, ‘ they’re a-goin’ to have another try, but it won’t do ! ’ So 
he begins a-chucklin’ wery hearty, wen, all of a sudden, the little boy leaves hold 
of the pickpocket’s arm, and rushes headforemost straight into the old gen’l’m’n’s 
stomach, and for a moment doubles him right up vith the pain. ‘ Murder ! ’ says 
the old gen’l’m’n. ‘ All right, sir,’ says the pickpocket, a wisperin’ in his ear. 
And wen he come straight agin, the watch and chain was gone, and what’s worse 
than that, the old gen’l’m’n’s digestion was all wrong ever artervards, to the wery 
last day of his life ; so just you look about you, young feller, and take care you 
don’t get too fat.” 

As Mr. Weller concluded this moral tale, with which the fat boy appeared much 
affected, they all three repaired to the large kitchen, in which the family were by 
this time assembled, according to annual custom on Christmas eve, observed by 
old Wardle’s forefathers from time immemorial. 

From the centre of the ceiling of this kitchen, old Wardle had just suspended, 
with his own hands, a huge branch of mistletoe, and this same branch of mistletoe 
instantaneously gave rise to a scene of general and most delightful struggling and 
confusion ; in the midst of which, Mr. Pickwick, with a gallantry that would have 
done honour to a descendant of Lady Tollimglower herself, took the old lady by 
the hand, led her beneath the mystic branch, and saluted her in all courtesy and 
decorum. The old lady submitted to this piece of practical politeness with all the 
dignity which befitted so important and serious a solemnity, but tlie younger 
ladies, not being so thoroughly imbued with a superstitious veneration for the 
«-ustom : or imagining that the value of a salute is very much enhanced if it cost 
n little troiible to obtain it : screamed and struggled, and ran into comers, and 
klareatened qnd remonstrated, and did eveiythi but leave the room, until som« 


IMder the Mistletoe. 


^43 

of the less adventurous gentlemen were on the point of desisting, when they all at 
once found it useless to resist any longer, and submitted to be kissed with a good 
grace. Mr. Winlde kissed the young lady with the black eyes, and Mr. Snodgrass 
kissed Emily, and Mr. Weller, not being particular about the form of being under 
the mistletoe, kissed Emma and the other female servants, just as he catght them. 
As to the poor relations, they kissed everybody, not even excepting the plainer 
portions of the young-lady visitors, who, in their excessive confusion, ran right 
under the mistletoe, as soon as it was hung up, without knowing it ! Wardle stood 
with his back to the fire, surveying the whole scene, with the utmost satisfaction ; 
and the fat boy took the opportunity of appropriating to his own use, and summa- 
rily devouring, a particularly fine mince-pie, that had been carefully put by, for 
somebody else. 

Now, the screaming had subsided, and faces were in a glow, and curls in a 
tangle, and Mr. Pickwick, after kissing the old lady as before mentioned, was 
standing under the mistletoe, looking with a very pleased countenance on all that 
was passing around him, when the young lady w th the black eyes, after a little 
whispering with the other young ladies, made a sud ien dart forward, and, putting 
her arm round Mr. Pickwick’s neck, saluted him aflectionately on the left cheek ; 
and before Mr. Pickwick distinctly knew what was the matter, he was surrounded 
by the whole body, and kissed by every one of them. 

It was a pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick in the centre of the group, now 
pulUd this way, and then that, and first kissed on the chin, and then on the nose, 
and then on the spectacles : and to hear the peals of laughter which were raised 
on every side ; but it was a still more pleasant thing to see Mr. Pickwick, blinded 
shortly afterwards with a silk handkerchief, falling up against the wall, and 
scrambling into comers, and going through all the mysteries of blind-man’s buff, 
with the utmost relish for the game, until at last he caught one of the poor rela- 
tions, and then had to evade the blind-man himself, which he did with a nimble- 
ness and agility that elicited the admiration and applause of all beholders. The 
poor relations caught the people who they thought would like it, and, when the 
game flagged, got caught themselves. When they were all tired of blind-man’s 
buff, there was a great game at snap-dragon, and when fingers enough were 
burned with that, and all the raisins were gone, they sat down by the huge fire of 
blazing logs to a substantial supper, and a mighty bowl of wassail, something 
smaller than an ordinary wash-house copper, in which the hot apples were hissing 
and bubbling with a rich look, and a jolly sound, that were perfectly irresis- 
tible. 

“ This,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking round him, “ this is, indeed, comfort.” 

“ Our invariable custom,” replied Mr. Wardle. “ Everybody sits down with us 
on Christmas eve, as you see them now — servants and all ; and here we wait, until 
the clock strikes twelve, to usher Christinas in, and beguile the time with forfeits 
and old stories. Trundle, my boy, rake up the fire.” 

Up flew the bright sparks in myriads as the logs were stirred. The deep red 
blaze sent forth a rich glow, that penetrated into the furthest comer of the room, 
at d cast it« cheerful tint on every face. 

• Come/' said Wardle, “ a song — a Christmas song ! I’ll give you one, in de- 
fault of a better.” 

“ Bravo !” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Fill up,” cried Wardle. “It will be two hours, good, before you see the 
bottom of the bowl through the deep rich colour of the wassail ; fill up all round, 
and now for the song.” 

Thus saying, the merry old gentleman, in a good, round, sturdy voice, com* 
menced without more ado ; 


244 


The Pickwick Club 


A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

I CARK not for Spring ; on his fickle wing 
Let the olossoms and buds be borne : 

He WOOS them amain with his treacherous rain. 

And he scatters them ere the morn. 

An ineonsiant elf, he knows not himself, 
fs'or his own changing mind an hour. 

He’ll smile in your face, and, with wry grimace. 

He’ll wither your youngest flower. 

Let the Summer sun to his bright home run. 

He shall never be sought by me; 

When he’s dimmed by a cloud I can laugh aloud. 

And care not how sulky he be! 

For his darling child is the madness wild 
That sports in fierce fever's train ; 

And when love is too strong, it don’t last long. 

As many have found to their pain. 

A mild harvest night, by the tranquil light 
Of the modest and gentle moon, 

Has a far sweeter sheen, for me, I ween, 

Than the broad and unblushing noon. 

But every leaf awakens my grief. 

As it lieth beneath the tree ; 

So let Autumn air be never so fair. 

It by no means agrees with me. 

But my song I troll out, for Christmas stoat. 

The hearty, the true, and the bold; 

A bumper 1 drain, and with might and main 
Give three cheers for this Christmas old! 

"We’d usher him in with a merry din 
That shall gladden his joyous heart. 

And we’ll keep him up, while there’s bite or sup. 

And in fellowship good, we 11 part. 

In his fine honest pride, he scorns to hide. 

One jot of his hard-weather scars ; 

They’re no disgrace, for there's much the same tract 
On the cheeks of our bravest tars. 

Then again I sing till the roof doth ring. 

And it echoes from wall to wall — 

To the stout old wight, fair welcome to-night. 

As the King of the Seasons all ! 

This song tvas tumultuously applauded — for friends and dependents make a 
capital audience — and the poor relations, especially, were in perfect ecstasies of 
rapture. Again was the fire replenished, and again went the wassail round. 

** How it snows ?” said one of the men, in a low tone. 

** Snows, does it said Wardle. 

“ Rough, cold night, sir,” replied the man ; “ and there’s a wind got up, that 
drifls it across the fields, in a thick white cloud.” 

“What does Jem say?” inquired the old lady. “There ain’t anything the 
matter, is there ?” 

“ No, no, mother,” replied Wardle ; “ he says there’s a snow-drift, and a wind 
that’s piercing cold. I should know that, by the way it rumbles in the chimney.” 

“ Ah !” said the old lady, “ there was just such a wind, and just such a fall of 
snow, a good many years back, I recollect — just five years before your poor falhes 
died. It was a Christmas eve, too ; and I remember that on that very night Iwi 
told us the story about the goblins that carried away old Gabriel Grub.” 

“ The story about what ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 


Larcenous GolLtns, 


“ Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied Wardle. “ About an old sexton, that the 
good people down here suppose to have been carried away by goblins.” 

“ Suppose !” ejaculated the old lady. “Is there any body hardy enough to 
disbelieve it ? Suppose ! Haven’t you heard ever since you were a child, that he 
ivas carried away by the goblins, and don’t you know he was 

“ Very well, mother, he was, if you like,” said Wardle, laughing. “He was 
carried away by goblins, Pickwick ; and there’s an end of the matter.” 

“ No, no,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ not an end of it, I assure you ; for I must hear 
how, and why, and all about it.” 

Wardle smiled, as every head was bent forward to hear; and filling out the 
wassail with no stinted hand, nodded a health to Mr. Pickwick, and began as 
follows : 

But bless our editorial heart, what a long chapter we have been betrayed into ! 
We had quite forgotten all such petty restrictions as chapters, we solemnly declare. 
So here goes, to give the goblin a fair start in a new one ! A clear stage and n ' 
favour for the goblins, ladies and gentlemen, if you please. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE STORY OF THE GOBLINS WHO STOLE A SEXTON. 

** Tn an old abbey town, down in this part of the country, a long, long while ago — 
so long, that the story must be a true one, because our great grandfathers im- 
plicitly believed it — there officiated as sexton and grave-digger in the churchyard, 
one Gabriel Grub. It by no means follows that because a man is a sexton, and 
constantly surrounded by the emblems of mortality, therefore he should be a 
morose and melancholy man ; your undertakers are the merriest fellows in the world ; 
and I once had the honour of being on intimate terms with a mute, who in private 
life, and off duty, was as comical and jocose a little fellow as ever chirped out a 
devil-may-care song, without a hitch in nis memory, or drained oft' the contents of 
a good stiff glass without stopping for breath. But, notwithstanding these prece- 
dents to the contrary, Gabriel Grub was an ill-conditioned, cross-grained, surly 
fellow — a morose and lonely man, who consorted with nobody but himself, and an 
old wicker bottle which fitted into his large deep waistcoat pocket — and who eyed 
each merry face, as it passed him by, with such a deep scowl of malice and ill- 
humour, as it was difficult to meet, without feeling something the worse for. 

“A little before twilight, one Christmas Eve, Gabriel shouldered his spade, 
lighted his lantern, and betook himself towards the old churchyard ; for he had 
got a grave to finish by next morning, and, feeling very low, he thought it might 
raise his spirits, perhaps, if he went on with his work at once. As he went his 
way, up the ancient street, he saw the cheerful light of the blazing fires gleam 
through the old casements, and heard the loud laugh and the cheerful shouts of 
those who were assembled around them ; he marked the bustling preparations for 
next day’s cheer, and smelt the numerous savoury odours consequent thereupon, 
as they steamed up from the kitchen windows in clouds. All this was gall and 
wormwood to the heart of Gabriel Grub ; and when groups of children, bounded 
out of the houses, tripped across the road, and were met, before they could knock 
at the opposite door, by half a dozen curly-headed little rascals who c'owded 
round them as they flocked up-stairs to spend the evening in their Christmas 
games, Gabriel smiled grimly, and clutched the handle of his spade with & firmer 


24.6 


The Pickwick Club. 


grasp, as he thought of measles, scarlet-fever, thrush, hooping-cough, and a good 
many other sources of consolation besides. 

“ In this happy frame of mind, Gabriel strode along ; returning a short, sullen 
growl to the good-humoured greetings of such of his neighbours as now and then 
passed him : until he turned into the dark lane which led to the churchyard. 
Now, Gabriel had been looking forward to reaching the dark lane, because it was, 
generally speaking, a nice, gloomy, mournful place, into which the towns-people 
did not much care to go, except in broad day-light, and when the sun was shining ; 
consequently, he was not a little indignant to hear a young urchin roaring out 
some jolly song about a merry Christmas, in this very sanctuary, which had been 
called Coffin Lane ever since the days of the old abbey, and the time of the 
shaven-headed monks. As Gabriel walked on, and the voice drew nearer, he 
found it proceeded from a small boy, who was hurrying along, to join one of the 
little parties in the old street, and who, partly to keep himself company, and 
partly to prepare himself for the occasion, was shouting out the song at the highest 
pitch of his lungs. So Gabriel waited until the boy came up, and then dodged 
him into a corner, and rapped him over the head with his lantern five or six time.s, 
to teach him to modulate his voice. And as the boy hurried away with his hand 
to his head, singing quite a different sort of tune, Gabriel Grub chuckled very 
heartily to himself, and entered the churchyard : locking the gate behind him. 

“ He took off his coat, put down his lantern, and getring into the unfinished 
grave, worked at it for an hour or so, with right good will. But the earth was 
hardened with the frost, and it was no veiy easy matter to break it up, and shovel 
it out ; and although there was a moon, it was a veiy^ young one, and shed little 
light upon the grave, which was in the shadow of the church. At any other 
time, these obstacles would have made Gabriel Grub very moody and miserable, 
but he was so well pleased with having stopped the small boy’s singing, that he 
took little heed of the scanty progress he had made, and looked down into the 
grave, when he had finished work for the night, with grim satisfaction : munnur- 
ing as he gathered up his things : 

Brave lodpinps for one, brave lodffinps for one, 

A few feet of cold earth, when life is done; 

A stone at the head, a stone at the feet, 

A rich, juicy meal for the worms to eat ; 

Bank gi ass over head, and damp clay around. 

Brave lodgings for one, these, in holy ground! 

‘ Ho ! ho ! ’ laughed Gabriel Grub, as he sat himself down on a flat tombstone 
which was a favourite resting-place of his ; and drew forth his wicker bottle. * A 
coffin at Christmas ! A Christmas Box. Ho ! ho ! ho ! ’ 

“ ‘ Ho ! ho ! ho ! ’ repeated a voice which sounded close behind him. 

“ Gabriel paused, in some alarm, in the act of raising the wicker bottle to his 
lips : and looked round. The bottom of the oldest grave about him, was not 
more still and quiet, than the churchyard in the pale moonlight. The cold hoar- 
frost glistened on the tombstones, and sparkled like rows of gems, among the stone 
carvings of the old church. The snow lay hard and crisp upon the ground ; and 
spread over the thickly-strewn mounds of earth, so white and smooth a cover, that 
it seemed as if corpses lay there, hidden only by their winding sheets. Not the 
faintest rustle broke the profound tranquillity of the solemn scene. Sound itself 
appeared to be frozen up, all was so cold and still. 

“ ‘ It was the echoes,’ said Gabriel Grub, raising the bottle to his lips again. 

‘«‘It was not,’’ said a deep voic(;. 

“ Gabriel started up, and stood rooted to the spot with astonishment and tenor ; 
for his eyes rested on a form tha made his blood run cold. 


Gabriel Grub wanted. 


247 


Seated on an upright tombstone, close to him, was a strange unearthly figju-e, 
whom Gabriel felt at Oince, was no being of this world. His long fantastic legs 
which might have reached the ground, were cocked up, and crossed after a quaint, 
fantastic fashion ; his sinewy arms were bare ; and his hands rested on his knees. On 
his short round body, he wore a close covering, ornamented with small slashes ; a 
short cloak dangled at his back ; the collar was cut into curious peaks, which 
served the goblin in lieu of ruff or neckerchief ; and his shoes curled up at his 
toes into long points. On his head, he wore a broad-brimmed sugar-loaf hat, 
garnished with a single feather. The hat was covered with the white frost ; and 
the goblin looked as if he had sat on the same tombstone very comfortably, for 
two or three hundred years. He was sitting perfectly still ; his tongue was put 
out, as if in derision ; and he was giinning at Gabriel Grub with such a grin as 
only a goblin could call up. 

“ ‘ It was not the echoes,’ said the goblin. 

*“ Gabriel Ginb was paralysed, and could make no reply. 

“ ‘ What do you do here on Christmas Eve ?’ said the goblin sternly. 

‘ I came to dig a grave, sir,’ stammered Gabriel Grub. 

“ ‘ "WTiat man wanders among graves and churchyards on such a night as this ?* 
cried the goblin. 

“ ‘ Gabriel Grub ! Gabriel Grub ! ’ screamed a wild chorus of voices that seemed 
to fill the churchyard. Gabriel looked fearfully round — nothing was to be seen. 

“ ‘ What have you got in that bottle ?’ said the goblin. 

“‘Hollands, sir,’ replied the sexton, trembling more than ever; for he had 
bought it of the smugglers, and he thought that perhaps his questioner might be 
in the excise department of the goblins, 

“ ‘ Who drinks Hollands alone, and in a churchyard, on such a night as this ?* 
said the goblin. 

“ ‘ Gabriel Grub ! Gabriel Grub !’ exclaimed the wild voices again. 

“The goblin leered maliciously at the terrified sexton, and then raising his 
voice, exclaimed : 

“ ‘ And who, then, is our fair and lawful prize ?’ 

“ To this inquiry the invisible chorus replied, in a strain that sounded like the 
voices of many choristers singing to the mighty swell of the old church organ — a 
strain that seemed borne to the sexton’s ears upon a wild wind, and to die away 
as it passed onward ; but the burden of the reply was still the same, ‘ Gabriel Grub ! 
Gabriel Grub ! ’ 

“The goblin grinned a broader grin than before, as he said, ‘Well, Gabriel, 
what do you say to this ?’ 

“ The sexton gasped for breath. 

“ ‘ What do you think of this, Gabriel ?’ said the goblin, kicking up his feet in 
the air on either side of the tombstone, and looking at the tumed-up points vvath 
as much complacency as if he had been contemplating the most fashionable pair 
of Wellingtons in all Bond Street. 

♦< < It ’s — it ’s — very curious, sir,’ replied the sexton, half dead with fright ; ‘ very 
curious, and very pretty, but I think I ’ll go back and finish my work, sir, if you please.* 

“ ‘ Work ! ’ said the goblin, ‘ what work ? ’ 

“ * The grave, sir ; making the grave,’ stammered the sexton. 

“ ‘ Oh, the grave, eh ? ’ said the goblin ; ‘ who makes graves at a time when all 
other men are merry, and takes a pleasure in it ? ’ 

“Again the mysterious voices replied, ‘ Gabriel Grub! Gabriel Grub I * ^ 

“‘I’m afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,’ said the goblin, thrusting his 
tongue further into his cheek than ever— and a most astonishing tongve it was— 
‘ I m afraid my friends want you, Gabriel,’ said the goblin. 


248 


The Pickwick Club. 


“‘Under favour, sii-,’ replied the horror-stricken sexton, ‘I don’t think they 
can, sir ; they don’t know me, sir ; I don’t think the gentlemen have ever seen 
me, sir.’ 

“ ‘ Oh yes they have,’ replied the goblin ; ‘ we know the man with the sulky 
face and grim scowl, that came down the street to-night, throwing his e^il looks 
at the children, and grasping his burying spade the tighter. We know the man 
who struck the boy in the envious malice of his heart, because the boy could be 
merr5% and he could not. We know him, we know him.’ 

“ Here, the goblin gave a loud shrill laugh, which the echoes returned twenty- 
fold : and throwing his legs up in the air, stood upon his head, or rather upon the 
very point of his sugar-loaf hat, on the narrow edge of the tomb-stone : whence 
he threw a somerset with extraordinary agility, right to the sexton’s feet, at which 
he planted himself in the attitude in which tailors generally sit upon the shop- 
board. 

“ ‘ I — I — am afraid I must leave you, sir,’ said the sexton, making an effort to 
move. 

“ ‘ Leave us ! ’ said the goblin, ‘ Gabriel Grub going to leave us. Ho ! ho ! ho ! ’ 

“As the goblin laughed, the sexton observed, for one instant, a brilliant illumi- 
nation within the windows of the church, as if the whole building were lighted 
up ; it disappeared, the organ pealed forth a lively air, and whole troops of goblins, 
the very counterpart of the first one, poured into the church-yard, and began 
playing at leap-frog with the tomb-stones : never stopping for an instant to take 
breath, but ‘ overing ’ the highest among them, one after the other, with the 
utmost marvellous dexterity. The first goblin was a most astonishing leaper, 
and none of the others could come near him ; even in the extremity of his terror 
the sexton could not help observing, that while his friends were content to leap 
over the common-sized gravestones, the first one took the family vaults, iron 
railings and all, with as much ease as if they had been so many street posts. 

“ At last the game reached to a most exciting pitch ; the organ played quicker 
and quicker ; and the goblins leaped faster and faster : coiling themselves up, 
rolling head over heels upon the ground, and bounding over the tombstones like 
foot-balls. The sexton’s brain whirled round with the rapidity of the motion he 
beheld, and his legs reeled beneath him, as the spirits flew before his eyes : 
when tlie goblin king, suddenly darting towards him, laid liis hand upon his 
collar, and sank with him through the earth. 

“ When Gabriel Grub had had time to fetch his breath, which the rapidity of 
his descent had for the moment taken away, he found himself in what appeared 
to be a large cavein, sun ounded on all sides by crowds of goblins, ugly and grim ; 
in the centre of the room, on an elevated seat, was stationed his friend of the 
churchyard ; and close beside him stood Gabriel Grub himself, without power of 
motion. 

“ ‘ Cold to-night,’ said the king .of the goblins, ‘ very cold. A glass of some- 
thing warm, here ! ’ 

“ At this command, half a dozen officious goblins, with a perpetual smile upon 
their faces, whom Gabriel Grub imagined to be courtiers, on that account, hastily 
disappeared, and presently returned with a goblet of liquid fire, which they pre- 
sented to the king. 

“ ‘ Ah ! ’ cried the goblin, whose cheeks and throat were transparent, as he 
tossed down the flame, ‘ This w'arms one, indeed ! Bring a bumper of the same, 
for Mr. Grub.’ 

“ It was in vain for the unfortunate sexton to protest that he was not in the 
habit of taking anything warm at night; one of the goblins held him while 
another poured the blazing liquid down bis throat ; the whole assembly screeched 


An Exhibition of Pictures. 249 

witl laughter as ne coughed and choked, and wiped away the tears which gushed 
plentifully from his eyes, after swallowing the burning draught. 

“ ‘ And now,’ said the king, fantastically poking the taper corner of his sugar- 
loaf hat into the sexton’s eye, and thereby occasioning him the most exquisite 
pain : ‘ And now, show the man of misery and gloom, a few of the pictures from 
oui own great storehouse ! ’ 

“ As the goblin said this, a thick cloud which obscured the remoter end of the 
cavern, rolled gradually away, and disclosed, apparently at a gieat distance, a 
small and scantily furnished, but neat and clean apartment. A crowd of little 
children were gathered round a bright fire, clinging to their mother’s gown, and 
gambolling around her chair. The mother occasionally rose, and drew aside the 
window-curtain, as if to look for some expected object ; a frugal meal was ready 
spread upon the table ,* and an elbow chair was placed near the fire. A knock 
was heard at the door : the mother opened it, and the children crowded round her, 
and clapped their hands for joy, as their father entered. He was wet and weary, 
and shook the snow from his gannents, as the children crowded round him, and 
seizing his cloak, hat, stick, and gloves, with busy zeal, ran with them from the 
room. Then, as he sat down to his meal before the fire, the children climbed 
about his knee, and the mother sat by his side, and all seemed happiness and 
comfort. 

“ But a change came upon the view, almost imperceptibly. The scene was 
altered to a small bed-room, where the fairest and youngest child lay dying; the 
roses had fled from his cheek, and the light from his eye ; and even as the sexton 
looked upon him wdth an interest he had never felt or known before, he died. 
His young brothers and sisters crowded round his little bed, and seized his tiny 
hand, so cold and heavy ; but they shnmk back from its touch, and looked with 
awe on his infant face ; for calm and tranquil as it was, and sleeping in rest and 
peace as the beautiful child seemed to be, they saw that he was dead, and they 
knew that he was an Angel looking down upon, and blessing them, from a bright 
and happy Heaven. 

“ Again the light cloud passed across the picture, and again the subject changed. 
The father and mother were old and helpless now, and the number of those about 
them was diminished more than half ; but content and cheerfulness sat on every 
face, and beamed in every eye, as they crowded round the fireside, and told and 
listened to old stories of earlier and bygone days. Slowdy and peacefully, the 
father sank into the grave, and, soon after, the sharer of all his cares and troubles 
followed him to a place of rest. The few, who yet survived them, knelt by their 
tomb, and watered the green turf which covered it, with their tears ; then rose, 
and turned away : sadly and mournfully, but not with bitcer cries, or despairing 
lamentations, for they knew that they should one day meet again ; and once 
more they mixed with the busy world, and their content and cheerfulness were 
restored. The cloud settled upon the picture, and concealed it from the sexton’s 
view. 

“ ‘What do you think of that ? ’ said the goblin, turning his large face towards 
Gabriel Grub. 

“ Gabriel murmured out something about its being veiy pretty, and looked 
somewhat ashamed, as the goblin bent his fiery eyes upon him. 

“ ‘ You a miserable man ! ’ said the goblin, in a tone of excessive contempt. 
‘ You ! ’ He appeared disposed to add more, but indignation choked his utterance, 
.so he lifted up one of his very pliable legs, and flourishing it above his head a 
little, to insure his aim, administered a good sound kick to Gabriel Grub ; imme- 
diately after which, all the goblins in waiting, crowded round the wretched sexton, 
and kicked him without mercy : according to the established and invariabl* 


* 5 ® 


The Pickwick Club, 


custom of courtiers upon earth, who kick whom royalty kicks, and hu » whom 
royalty hugs. 

“ ‘ Show him some more ! ’ said the king of the goblins. 

“At these words, the cloud was dispelled, and a rich and beautiful landscape 
tvas disclosed to view — there is just such another, to this day, within half a mile of 
the old abbey town. The sun shone from out the clear blue sky, the water sparkled 
beneath his rays, and the trees looked greener, and the flowers more gay, beneath 
his cheering influence. The water rippled on, with a pleasant sound ; the trees 
rustled in the light wind that murmured among their leaves ; the birds sang upon 
the boughs ; and the lark carolled on high, her welcome to the morning. Yes, it 
was morning : the bright, balmy morning of summer ; the minutest leaf, the 
smallest blade of grass, was instinct with life. The ant crept forth to her daily 
toil, the butterfly flutteied and basked in the warm rays of the sun; myriads of 
insects spread their transparent wings, and revelled in their brief but happy 
existence. Man walked forth, elated with the scene ; and all was brightness and 
splendour. 

“ ‘ You a miserable man ! ’ said the king of the goblins, in a more contemptuous 
tone than before. And again the king of the goblins gave his leg a flourish ; again 
it descended on the shoulders of the sexton ; and again the attendant goblins 
imitated the example of their chief. 

“ Many a time the cloud went and came, and many a lesson it taught to Gabriel 
Grub, who, although his shoulders smarted with pain from the frequent applica- 
tions of the goblin’s feet, looked on with an interest that nothing could diminish. 
He saw that men who worked hard, and earned their scanty bread with lives of 
labour, were cheerful and happy ; and that to the most ignorant, the sweet face of 
nature was a never-failing source of cheerfulness and joy. He saw those who had 
been delicately nurtured, and tenderly brought up, cheerful under privations, and 
superior to suffering, that would have crushed many of a rougher grain, because 
they bore within their own bosoms the materials of happiness, contentment, and 
peace. He saw that women, the tenderest and most fragile of all God’s creatures, 
were the oftenest superior to sorrow, adversity, and distress ; and he saw tha* it 
was because they bore, in their own hearts, an inexhaustible well-spring of affection 
and devotion. Above all, he saw that men like himself, who snarled at the mirth 
and cheerfulness of others, were the foulest weeds on the fair surface of the earth ; 
and setting all the good of the world against the evil, he came to the conclusion 
that it was a very decent and respectable sort of world after all. No sooner had 
he formed it, than the cloud which closed over the last picture, seemed to settle 
on his senses, and lull him to repose. One by one, the goblins faded from his 
sight ; and as the last one disappeared, he sunk to sleep. 

“ The day had broken when Gabriel Grub awoke, and found himself lying, at 
full length on the flat grave-stone in the churchyard, with the wicker bottle lying 
empty by his side, and his coat, spade, and lantern, all well whitened by the last 
night’s frost, scattered on the ground. The stone on which he had first seen the 
goblin seated, stood bolt upright before him, and the grave at which he had 
worked, the night before, was not far off. At first, he began to doubt the reality 
of his adventures, but the acute pain in his shoulders when he attempted to rise, 
assured him that the kicking of the goblins was certainly not ideal. He was 
staggered again, by obseiwing no traces of footsteps in the snow on which the 
goblins had played at leap-frog with the grave-stones, but he speedily accounted 
for this circumstance when he remembered that, being spirits, they would leave no 
visible impression behind them. So, Gabriel Grub got on his feet as well as he 
could, for the pain in his back ; and bnishing the frost off his coal, put it on, tnd 
turned his face towards the town. 


Live and Learn. 


“ But he was an altered man, and he could not bear the thought of returning to 
K place where his repentance would be scoffed at, and his reformation disbelieved. 
He hesitated for a few moments ; and then turned away to wander where he might, 
and seek his bread elsewhere. 

“The lantern, the spade, and the wicker bottle, were found, that day, in the 
churchyard. There were a great many speculations about the sexton’s fate, at first, 
but it was speedily determined that he had been carried away by the goblins ; and 
theve were not wanting some very credible Avitnesses wlio had distinctly seen him 
whisked through the air on the back of a chestnut horse blind of one eye, with the 
hind-quarters of a lion, and the tail of a bear. At length all this was devoutly 
believed ; and the new sexton used to exhibit to the curious, for a trifling emolu- 
ment, a good-sized piece of the church weathercock which had been accidentally 
kicked off by the aforesaid horse in his aerial flight, and picked up by himself in 
the churchyard, a year or two afterwards. 

“ Unfortunately, these stories were somewhat disturbed by the unlooked-for re- 
appearance of Gabriel Grub himself, some ten years afterwards, a ragged, con- 
tented, rheumatic old man. He told his story to the clergyman, and also to the 
mayor ; and in course of time it began to be received, as a matter of histoiy, in 
which form it has continued do^vn to this veiy day. The believers in the weather- 
cock tale, having misplaced their confidence once, were not easily prevailed upon 
to part with it again, so they looked as wise as they could, shrugged their shoulders, 
touched their foreheads, and murmured something about Gabriel Grub having 
drunk all the Hollands, and then fallen asleep on the flat tombstone ; and they 
affected to explain what he supposed he had witnessed in the goblin’s cavern, by 
saying that he had seen the world, and grown wiser. But this opinion, which 
was by no means a popular one at any time, gradually died off ; and be the matter 
how it may, as Gabriel Giaib was afflicted with rheumatism to the end of his days, 
this story has at least one moral, if it teach no better one — and that is, that if a 
man turn sulky and drink by himself at Christmas time, he may make up his mind 
to be not a bit the better for it : let the spirits be never so good, or let them be even 
as many degrees beyond proof, as those which Gabriel Grub saw in tht goblin’? 
cavern.” 


CHAPTER XXX. 

HOW THE PICKWICKIANS MADE AND CULTIVATED THE ACQUAINTANCE OF A 
COUPLE OF NICE YOUNG MEN BELONGING TO ONE OF THE LIBERAL PRO 
FESSIONS ; HOW THEY DISPORTED THEMSELVES ON THE ICE ; AND HOW 
THEIR FIRST VISIT CAME TO A CONCLUSION. 

“Well, Sam,” said Mr. Pick-wick as that favoured servitor entered his bed 
chamber with his warm water, on the morning of Christmas Day, “ Still frosty ?” 
“ Water in the wash-hand basin ’s a mask o’ ice, sir,” responded Sara. 

“ Severe weather, Sam,” observed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Fine time for them as is well wropped up, as the Polar Bear said to himself, 
ven he was practising his skating,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ I shall be down in a quarter of an hour, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, untying 
his nightcap. 

“ Wery good, sir,” replied Sam. “ There’s a couple o’ Sawbones down stairs. 
“ A couple of what !” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sitting up in bed. 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ A couple o’ Sawbones,” said Sam. 

“What’s a Sawbones?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, not quite certain whether it 
was a live animal, or something to eat. 

“ What ! Don’t you know what a Sawbones is, sir ?” inquired Mr. Weller. “I 
thought everybody know’d as a Sawbones was a Surgeon.” 

“ Oh, a Surgeon, eh ?” said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. 

“Just that, sir,” replied Sam. “These here ones as is below, though, aint 
reg’lar thorough-bred Sawbones ; they’re only in trainin’.” 

“ In other words they’re Medical Students, I suppose ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Sam Weller nodded assent. 

“lam glad of it,” said Mr. Pickwick, casting his nightcap energetically on the 
counterpane, “ They are fine fellows ; very fine fellows ; with judgments matured 
by observation and reflection ; tastes refined by reading and study. I am very 
glad of it.” 

“They’re a smokin’ cigars by the kitchen fire,” said Sam. 

“Ah!” observed Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his hands, “ overflowing with kindly 
feelings and animal spirits. Just what I like to see.” 

“And one on ’em,” said Sam, not noticing his master’s interruption, “ one on 
’em ’s got his legs on the table, and is a drinkin’ brandy neat, vile the tother one — 
him in the barnacles— has got a barrel o’ oysters atween his knees, wich he’s 
a openin’ like steam, and as fast as he eats ’em, he takes a aim vith the shells at 
young dropsy, who’s a sittin’ down fast asleep, in the chimbley corner.” 

“Eccentricities of genius, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. “You may retire.” 

Sam did retire accordingly ; Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of the quarter of 
an hour, went down to breakfast. 

“ Here he is at last!” said old Mr. Wardle. “ Pickwick, this is Miss Allen’s 
brother, Mr. Benjamin Allen. Ben we call him, and so may you if you like. 
This gentleman is his very particular friend, Mr. ” 

“ Mr. Bob Sawyer,” intei-posed Mr. Benjamin Allen ; whereupon Mr. Bob 
Sawyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen laughed in concert. 

Mr. Pickwick bowed to Bob Sawyer, and Bob Sawyer bowed to Mr. Pickwick ; 
Bob and his very particular friend then applied themselves most assiduously to the 
eatables before them ; and Mr. Pickwick had an opportunity of glancing at them 
both. 

Mr. Benjamin Allen was a coarse, stout, thick-set young man, with black hair 
cut rather short, and a white face cut rather long. He was embellished with 
spectacles, and wore a white neckerchief. Below his single-breasted black sur- 
tout, which was buttoned up to his chin, appeared the usual number of pepper- 
and-salt coloured legs, terminating in a pair of imperfectly polished boots. 
Although his coat was short in the sleeves, it disclosed no vestige of a linen 
wristband ; and although there v/as quite enough of his face to admit of the 
encroachment of a shirt collar, it was not graced by the smallest approach to that 
appendage. He presented, altogether, rather a mildewy appearance, and emitted 
a fragrant odour of full-flavoured Cubas. 

Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was habited in a coarse blue coat, which, without being 
“ither a great-coat or a surtout, partook of the nature and qualities of both, had 
about him that sort of slovenly smartness, and swaggering gait, which is peculiar 
to young gentlemen who smoke in the streets by day, shout and scream in the 
same by night, callM^aiters by their Christian names, and do various other acts and 
deeds of an equally facetious description. He wore a pair of plaid trousers, and 
a large rough double-breasted waistcoat ; out of doors, he carried a thick stick 
with a big top. He eschewed gloves, and looked, upon the whole, something 
jkif a dissipated Robinson Crusoe. 


Arabella s Brother. 


Such were the two worthies to whom Mr. Pickwick was introduced, as he took 
nis seat at the breakfast table on Christmas morning. 

“ Splendid morning, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. Bob Sawyer slightly nodded his assent to the proposition, and asked 
Mr. Benjamin Allen for the mustard. 

“ Have you come far this morning, gentlemen inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Blue Lion at Muggleton,” briedy responded Mr. Allen. 

“You should have joined us last night,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ So we should,” replied Bob Sawyer, “but the brandy was too good to leavt 
in a hurry : wasn’t it, Ben 

“Certainly,” said Mr. Benjamin Allen ; “and the cigars were not bad, or the 
pork chops either ; were they. Bob .?” 

“ Decidedly not,” said Bob. The particular friends resumed their attack upon 
the breakfast, more freely than before, as if the recollection of last night’s supper 
had imparted a new relish to the meal. 

“Peg away. Bob,” said Mr. Allen to his companion, encouragingly. 

“ So I do,” replied Bob Sawyer. And so, to do him justice, he did. 

“ Nothing like dissecting, to give one an appetite,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer, look 
ing round the table. 

Mr. Pickwick slightly shuddered. 

“ By the bye. Bob,” said Mr. Allen, “ have you finished that leg yet ?” 

“ Nearly,” replied Sawyer, helping himself to half a fowl as he spoke. “It’s 
a very muscular one for a child’s.” 

“ Is it inquired Mr. Allen, carelessly. 

“Very,” said Bob Sawyer, with his mouth full. 

“ I’ve put my name down for an arm, at our place,” said Mr. Allen. “ We’re 
clubbing for a subject, and the list is nearly full, only we can’t get hold of any 
fellow that wants a head. I wish you’d take it.” 

“ No,” replied Bob Sawyer ; “ can’t afford expensive luxuries.” 

“ Nonsense !” said Allen. 

“Can’t indeed,” rejoined Bob Sawyer. “I wouldn’t mind a brain, but I 
couldn’t stand a whole head.” 

“ Hush, hush, gentlemen, pray,” said Mr. Pickwick, “I hear the ladies.” 

As Mr. Pickwick spoke, the ladies, gallantly escorted by Messrs. Snodgrass, 
Winkle, and Tupman, returned from an early walk. 

“Why, Ben!” said Arabella, in a tone which expressed more surprise than 
pleasure at the sight of her brother. 

“ Come to take you home to-moiTOW,” replied Benjamin. 

Mr. Winkle turned pale. 

“ Don’t you see Bob Sa'wwer, Arabella ?” inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, some 
what reproachfully. Arabella gracefully held out her hand, in acknowledgment 
of Bob Sawyer’s presence. A thrill of hatred stiiick to Mr. Winkle’s heart, as 
Bob Sawyer inflicted on the proffered hand a perceptible squeeze. 

“ Ben, dear I ” said Arabella, blushing ; “ have — have — you been introduced to 
Mr. Winkle.?” 

“I have not been, but I shall be very happy to be, Arabella^” replied her 
brother gravely. Here Mr. Allen bowed grimly to lilr. Winkle, while Mr. Winkle 
and Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced mutual distrust out of the corners of their eyes. 

The aiTival of the two new visitors, and the consequent check upon Mr. Winkle 
and the young lady with the fur round her boots, would in all probability have 
proved a very unpleasant interruption to the hilarity of the party, had not the 
cheerfulness of Mr. Pickwick, and the good hum^'ur of the host, been exerted to 
the very itmost for the common weal. Mr. Winkle gradually insinuated himself 


*54 


The Pkhwick Club, 


into the good graces of Mr. Benjamin Allen, and even joined in a friendly conver 
sation with Mr. Bob Sawyer ; who, enlivened with the brandy, and the breakfast, 
and the talking, gradually ripened into a state of extreme facetiousness, and 
related with much glee an agreeable anecdote, about the removal of a tumour on 
some gentleman’s head : which he illustrated by means of an oyster-knife and a 
half-quartern loaf, to the great edification of the assembled company. Then, the 
whole train went to church, where Mr. Benjamin Allen fell fast asleep : while Mr. 
Bob Sawyer abstracted his thoughts from worldly matters, by the ingenious pro- 
cess of cai-ving his name on the seat of the pew, in corpulent letters of four inches 
long. 

“ Now,” said Wardle, after a substantial lunch, with the agreeable items of 
strong-beer and cherry-brandy, had been done ample justice to ; “what say you 
to an hour on the ice } We shall have plenty of tinje.’ ’ 

“ Capital!” said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

“Prime!” ejaculated Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“You skate, of course. Winkle said Wardle. 

“ Ye-yes ; oh, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle. “ I — I — am rather out of practice.” 

“ Oh, do skate, Mr. Winkle,” said Arabella. “ I lilce to see it so much.” 

“ Oh, it is so graceful,” said another young lady. 

A third young lady said it was elegant, and a fourth expressed her opinion that 
it was “ swan-like.” 

“I should be very happy, I’m sure,” said Mr. Winkle, reddening; “but I 
have no skates.” 

This objection was at once overruled. Trundle had a couple of pair, and the 
fat boy announced that there were half-a-dozen more down stairs : whereat Mr. 
Winkle expressed exquisite delight, and looked exquisitely uncomfortable. 

Old Wardle led the way to a pretty large sheet of ice ; and the fat boy and Mr. 
Weller, having shovelled and swept away the snow which had fallen on it during 
the night, Mr. Bob Sawyer adjusted his skates with a dexterity which to Mr. 
Winkle was perfectly marv-ellous, and described circles with his left leg, and cut 
figures of eight, and inscribed upon the ice, without once stopping for breath, a 
great many other pleasant and astonishing devices, to the excessive satisfaction of 
Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Tupman, and the ladies : which reached a pitch of positive 
enthusiasm, when old Wardle and Benjamin Allen, assisted by the aforesaid Bob 
Sawyer, perfomied some mystic evolutions, which they called a reel. 

All this time, Mr. Winkle, with his face and hands blue wth the cold, had 
been forcing a gimlet into the soles of his feet, and putting his skates on, with tlie 
points behind, and getting the straps into a very complicated and entangled state, 
with the assistance of Mr. Snodgrass, who knew rather less about skates than a 
Hindoo. At length, however, with the assistance of Mr. Weller, the unfortunate 
skates were firmly screwed and buckled on, and Mr. Winkle was raised to his feet. 

“ Now, then, sir,” said Sam, in an encouraging tone; “ off vith you, and show 
’em how to do it.” 

“ Stop, Sam, stop !” said Mr. Winkle, trembling violently, and clutching hold 
of Sam’s arms with the grasp of a drowning man. “ How slippery it is, Sam ! ” 

“Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “Hold up, 
sir! ” 

This last observation of Mr. Weller’s bore reference to a demonstration Mr. 
Winkle made at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and 
dash the back of his head on the ice. 

“These — these — are very awkward skates; ain’t they, Sam?” inquired Mr. 
Winkle, staggering. 

“I’m afeerd there’s a orkard gen’l’m’n in ’em, sir,” replied Sam. 


Mr. Winkle on Snates. 


“Now. Winkle,” cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was any* 
^hing the matter. “ Come ; the ladies are all anxiety.” 

“Yes, yes,” replied Mr. Winkle, with a ghastly smile. “ I’m coming.” 

“ Just a goin’ to begin,” said Sam, endeavouring to disengage himself. “ Now, 
sir, start off !” 

“ Stop an instant, Sam,” gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to 
Mr. Weller. “ I find I’ve got a couple of coats at home that I don’t want, Sam. 
You may have them, Sam.” 

“ Thank’ee, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. » 

“Never mind touching your hat, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle, hastily. “You 
needn’t take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings 
this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I’ll give it you this afternoon, Sam.” 

“You’re wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“Just hold me at first, Sam; will you said Mr. Winkle. “ The»-e — that’s 
right. I s-hall soon get in the way of it, Sam. Not too fast, Sam ; not too fast.” 

Mr. Winkle stooping foi-ward, with his body half doubled up, was being 2.ssisted 
over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swan-like manner, Mr- 

Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank : 

“Sam !” 

“Sir?” 

“ Here. I want you.” 

“ Let go, sir,” said Sam. “ Don’t you hear the governor a callin’ ? Let go, sir.” 

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the 
agonised Pickwickian, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to 
the unhappy Air. Winkle. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or 
practice could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into 
the centre of the reel, at the very moment when Air. Bob Sawyer was performing 
a flourish of unparalleled beauty. Air. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with 
a loud crash they both fell heavily down. Air. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob 
Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of 
the kind, in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile ; 
but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance. 

“ Are you hurt ? ” inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety. 

' “Not much,” said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard. 

“ I wish you’d let me bleed you,” said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness. 

“No, thank you,” replied Mr. Winkle hurriedly. 

“ I really think you had better,” said Allen. 

“ Thank you,” replied Mr. Winkle ; “ I’d rather not.” 

“ What did you think, Mr. Pickwick ?” inquired Bob Sawyer. 

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and 
said in a stem voice, “ Take his skates off.” 

“ No ; but really I had scarcely begun,” remonstrated Mr. Winkle. 

“ Take his skates off,” repeated Air. Pickwick firmly. 

The command was not to be resisted. Air. Winkle allowed Sam to obey it in 
silence. 

“Lift him up,” said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise. 

Mr. Pickwick retired a few’ paces apart from the by-standers ; and, beckoning 
his friend to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered in a low, but 
distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words ; 

“You’re a humbug, sir.” 

“A w’hat ?” said Mr. Winkle, starting. 

“A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer, if you wish it. An impostor, sir.” 

With those words. Air. Pickwick turned slowly on his heel, and rejoined his fnends. 


256 


The Pickwick Club. 


Mr. Pickwick was delivering himself of the sentiment just recorded, Mr. 
Weller and the fat boy, having by their joint endeavours cut out a slide, were 
exercising themselves thereupon, in a very masterly and brilliant manner. Sam 
Weller, in particular, was displaying that beautiful feat of fancy-sliding which is 
currently denominated “ knocking at the cobbler’s door,” and which is achieved 
by skimming over the ice on one foot, and occasionally giving a postman’s knock 
upon it with the other. It was a good long slide, and there was something in 
the motion which Mr. Pickwick, who was very cold with standing still, could not 
help envying. 

“ It looks a nice warm exercise that, doesn’t it ? ” he inquired of Wardle, when 
that gentleman was thoroughly out of breath, by reason of the indefatigable man- 
ner in which he had converted his legs into a pair of compasses, and drawn 
complicated problems on the ice. 

“ Ah, it does indeed,” replied Wardle. “ Do j^ou slide ? ” 

“ I used to do so, on the gutters, when I was a boy,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“Try it now,” said Wardle. 

“ Oh do please, Mr. Pickwick !” cried all the ladies. 

“I should be very happy to afford you any amusement,” replied Mr. Pickwick, 
“ but I haven’t done such a thing these thirty years.” 

“ Pooh ! pooh ! Nonsense ! ” said Wardle, dragging off his skates with the im- 
petuosity which characterised all his proceedings. “Here; I’ll keep you company; 
come along ! ” And away went the good tempered old fellow down the slide, with 
a rapidity which came very close upon Mr. Weller, and beat the fat boy all to 
nothing. 

Mr. Pickwick paused, considered, pulled off his gloves and put them in his hat : 
took two or three short runs, baulked himself as often, and at last took another 
run, and went slowly and gravely down the slide, with his feet about a yard and a 
quarter apart, amidst the gratified shouts of all the spectators. 

“ Keep the pot a bilin’, sir ! ” said Sam ; and down went Wardle again, and 
then Mr. Pickwick, and then Sam, and then Mr. Winkle, and then Mr. Bob Saw- 
yer, and then the fat boy, and then Mr. Snodgrass, following closely upon each 
other’s heels, and running after each other with as much eagerness as if all their 
future prospects in life depended on their expedition. 

It was the most intensely interesting thing, to obser\’e the manner in which Mr.- 
Pickwick performed his share in the ceremony ; to watch the torture of anxiety 
with which he viewed the person behind, gaining upon him at the imminent hazard 
of tripping him up ; to see him gradually expend the painful force he had 
put on at first, and turn slowly round on the slide, with his face towards the point 
from which he had started ; to contemplate the playful smile which mantled on 
his face when he had accomplished the distance, and the eagerness with which he 
turned round when he had done so, and ran after his predecessor : his black gai- 
ters tripping pleasantly through the snow, and his eyes beaming cheerfulness and 
gladness through his spectacles. And when he was knocked down (which hap- 
pened upon the average every third round), it was the most invigorating sight that 
can possibly be imagined, to behold him gather up his hat, gloves, and hand- 
kerchief, with a glowing countenance, and resume his station in the rank, with an 
ardour and enthusiasm that nothing could abate. 

The sport was at its height, the sliding was at the quickest, the laughter was at 
the loudest, when a sharp smart crack was heard. There was a quick rush towards 
the bank, a wild scream from the ladies, and a shout from Mr. Tupman. A large 
mass of ice disappeared ; the water bubbled up over it ; Mr. Pickwick’s hat, gloves, 
and handkerchief were floating on the sm-face ; and this was all of Mr. Pickwick 
that anybody could see. 


Itiy and Oui. 


»57 


Dismay and anguish were depicted on every countenance, the males turned 
pale, and the females fainted, Mr. Snodgrass and Mr. Winkle grasped each other 
by the hand, and gazed at the spot where their leader had gone down, with frenzied 
■iagemess : while Mr. Tupman, by way of rendering the promptest assistance, and 
at the same time conveying to any persons who might be within hearing, the 
clearest possible notion of the catastrophe, ran off across the country at his utmost 
speed, screaming “ Fire ! ” with all his might. 

It was at this moment, when old Wardle and Sam Weller were approaching 
the hole with cautious steps, and Mr. Benjamin Allen was holding a hurried con- 
sultation with Mr. Bob Sawyer, on the advisability of bleeding the company 
generally, as an improving little bit of professional practice — it was at this veiy 
moment, that a face, head, and shoulders, emerged from beneath the water, and 
disclosed the features and spectacles of Mr. Pickwick. 

Keep yourself up for an instant— for only one instant !” bawled Mr. Snodgrass. 

“Yes, do; let me implore you — for my sake!” roared Mr. Winkle, deeply 
affected. The adjuration was rather unnecessary ; the probability being, that if 
Mr. Pickwick had declined to keep himself up for anybody else’s sake, it would 
have occurred to him that he might as well do so, for his own. 

“ Do you feel the bottom there, old fellow } ” said Wardle. 

“Yes, certainly,” replied Mr. Pickwick, wringing the water from his head and 
face, and gasping for breath. “ I fell upon my back. I couldn’t get on my 
feet at first.” 

The clay upon so much of Mr. Pickwick’s coat as was yet visible, bore testi- 
mony to the accuracy of this statement ; and as the fears of the spectators were 
still further relieved by the fat boy’s suddenly recollecting that the water was 
nowhere more than five feet deep, prodigies of valour were performed to get him 
out. After a vast quantity of splashing, and cracking, and struggling, Mr. Pick- 
wick was at length fairly extricated from his unpleasant position, and once more 
stood on dry land. 

“ Oh, he’ll catch his death of cold,” said Emily. 

“ Dear old thing 1 ” said Arabella. “ Let me wrap this shawl round you, 
Mr. Pickwick.” 

“ Ah, that’s the best thing you can do,” said Wardle; “ and when you’ve got 
it on, run home as fast as your legs can carry you, and jump into bed directly.” 

A dozen shawls were offered on the instant. Three or four of the thickest 
having been selected, Mr. Pickwick was wrapped up, and started off, under the 
guidance of Mr. Weller : presenting the singular phenomenon of an elderly 
gentleman, dripping wet, and without a hat, with his arms bound down to his sides, 
skimming over the ground, without any clearly defined purpose, at the rate of six 
good English miles an hour. 

But Mr. Pickwick cared not for appearances in such an extreme case, and urged 
on by Sam Weller, he kept at the very top of his speed until he reached the door 
of Manor Farm, where Mr. Tupman had arrived some five minutes before, and 
had frightened the old lady into palpitations of the heart by impressing her with 
the unalterable conviction that the kitchen chimney was on fire — a calamity which 
always presented itself in glowing colours to the old lady’s mind, when anybody 
about her evinced the smallest agitation. 

Mr. Pickwick paused not an instant until he was snug in bed. Sam Weller 
lighted a blazing fire in th^ room, and took up his dinner ; a bowl of punch was 
carried up afterwards, and a grand carouse field in honour of his safety. Old 
Wardle would not hear of his rising, so they made the bed the chair, and Mr. 
Pickwick presided. A second and a third bowl were ordered in ; and when Mr. 
Pickwick awoke next morning, there wa= not a symptom of rheumatism about 

s 


The Pickwick Clul. 


him : which proves, as Mr. Bob Sawyer very justly observed, that there is nothing 
like hot punch in such cases : and that if ever hot punch did fail to act as a pre- 
ventive, it was merely because the patient fell into the vulgar error of not taking 
enough of it. ... 

The jovial party broke up next morning. Breakings up are capital things in 
our school days, but in after life they are painful enough. Death, self-interest, and 
fortune’s changes, are every day breaking up many a happy group, and scattering 
them far and wide ; and the boys and girls never come back again. We do not 
mean to say that it was exactly the case in this particular instance ; all we wish to 
inform the reader is, that the different members of the party dispersed to their 
several homes ; that Mr. Piipkwick and his friends once more took their seats on 
the top of the Muggleton coach ; and that Arabella Allen repaired to hei place 
of destination, wherever it might have been — we dare say Mr. Winkle knew, but 
w'e confess we don’t — under the care and guardianship of her brother Benjamin, 
and his most intimate and particular friend, Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

Before they separated, however, that gentleman and Mr. Benjamin Allen drew 
Mr. Pickwick aside with an air of some mystery : and Mr. Bob Sawyer thrustiiig 
his forefinger between two of Mr. Pickwick’s ribs, and thereby displaying his 
native drollery, and his knowledge of the anatomy of the human frame, at one 
and the same time, inquired : 

“ I say, old boy, where do you hang out ? ” 

Mr. Pickwick replied that he was at present suspended at the George and 
Vulture* 

“ I wish you’d come and see me,” said Bob Sawyer. 

“ Nothing would give me ^eater pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ There’s my lodgings,” said Mr. Bob Sa^vyer, producing a card. “Lant Street, 
Borough ; it’s near Guy’s, and handy for me, you know. Little distance after 
you’ve passed Saint George’s Church — turns out of the High Street on the right 
hand side the way.” 

“ I shall find it,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Come on Thursday fortnight, and bring the other chaps with you,” said Mr. 
Bob Sawyer, “ I’m going to have a few medical fellows that night.” 

Mr. Pickwick expressed the pleasure it would afford him to meet the medical 
fellows ; and after Mr. Bob Sawyer had informed him that he meant to be very 
cosey, and that his friend Ben wns to be one of the party, they shook hands and 
separated. 

We feel that in this place we lay ourself open to the inquiry whether INIr. 
Winkle was whispering, during this brief conversation, to Arabella Allen ; and 
if so, wLat he said ; and furthermore, whether Mr. Snodgrass was conversing 
apart with Emily Wardle ; and if so, what he said. To this, we reply, that what- 
ever they might have said to the ladies, they said nothing at all to Mr. Pickwick 
or Mr. Tupman lor eight-and-twenty miles, and that they sighed veiy often, 
refused ale and brandy, and looked gloomy. If our observant lady readers can 
deduce any satisfactory inferences from these facts, we beg them by all means 
to do so. 


Legal Machinery. 


^59 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

WHICH IS ALL ABOUT THE LAW^ AND SUNDRY GREAT AUTHORITIES LEARNED 

THEREIN. 

Scattered about, in various holes and comers of the Temple, are certain dark 
and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning in Vacation, and half 
the evening too in Term time, there may be seen constantly hurrying with bundles 
of papers under their arms, and protniding from their pockets, an almost unin- 
terrupted succession of Lawyers’ Clerks. There are several grades of Lawj^ers’ 
Clerks. There is the Articled Clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney 
in perspective, who runs a tailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties, knows a 
family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square : who goes out of town 
eveiy Long Vacation to see his father, who keeps live horses innumerable ; and 
who is, in short, the veiy aristocrat of clerks. There is the salaried clerk — out of 
door, or in door, as the case may be — who devotes the major part of his thirty 
shillings a week to his personal pleasure and adornment, repairs half-price to the 
Adelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the cider 
cellars aftei-wards, and is a dirty caricature of the fashion which expired six months 
ago. There is the middle-aged copying clerk, with a large family, who is always 
shabby, and often drunk. And there are the office lads in their first surtouts, who 
feel a befitting contempt for boys at day-schools : club as they go home at night, 
for saveloys and porter : and think there’s nothing like “life.” There are varieties 
of the genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may be, 
they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours, hurrying to and from 
the places we have just mentioned. 

These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession, where 
writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and numerous other ingenious 
machines put in motion for the torture and tonnent of His Majesty’s liege subjects, 
and the comfort and emolument of the practitioners of the law. They are, for 
the most part, low-roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, 
which have been perspiring in secret for the last Century, send forth an agreeable 
odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry rot, and by night with 
the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks, festering umbrellas, and 
the coarsest tallow candles. 

About half-past seven o’clock in the evening, some ten days or a fortnight after 
Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there hurried into one of these 
offices, an individual in a brown coat and brass buttons, whose long hair was 
scrupulously twisted round the rim of his napless hat, and whose soiled drab 
trousers were so tightly strapped over his Blucher boots, that his knees threatened 
CA’ery moment to start from their concealment. He produced from his coat 
pockets a long and narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionaiy 
impressed an illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of paper, of 
similiar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip of parchment 
with blanks for a name ; and having filled up the blanks, put all the five documents 
in his pocket, and hurried away. 

The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket, was 
no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of Dodson and 
Fogg, Freeman’s Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the office from whence 
he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court, and walking straight 


26 o 


The Pickwick Clu}. 

into the George and Vulture, demanded to know whether one Mr. Pickwick was 
within. 

“ Call Mr. Pickwick’s servant, Tom,” said the barmaid of the George and 
Vulture. 

“ Don’t trouble yourself,” said Mr. Jackson, “I’ve come on business. If you’ll 
show me Mr. Pickwick’s room I’ll step up myself.” 

“ What name, sir ? ” said the waiter. 

“ Jackson,” replied the clerk. 

The waiter stepped up stairs to announce Mr. Jackson ; but Mr. Jackson saved 
liim the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into the apartment 
before he could articulate a syllable. 

Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner ; they were all 
seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson presented himself, 
as above described. 

“ How de do, sir ? ” said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick. 

That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the physiognomy 
of Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection. 

“ I have called from Dodson and Fogg’s,” said Mr. Jackson, in an explanatory 
tone. 

Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. “ I refer you to my attorney, sir : Mr. 
Perker, of Gray’s Inn,” said he. “ Waiter, show this gentleman out.” 

“ Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,” said Jackson, deliberately depositing his 
hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of parchment. “ But per- 
sonal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you know, Mr. Pickwick — nothing 
like caution, sir, in all legal forms 

Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment ; and, resting his hands on 
the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile, said : “ Now, 
come ; don’t let’s have no words about such a little matter as this. Which of 
you gentlemen’s name’s Snodgiass ? ” 

At this inquiiy Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable start, 
that no further reply was needed. 

“ Ah ! I thought so,” said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. “ I’ve got 
a little something to trouble you with, sir.” 

“ Me I ” exclaimed Mr. Snodgiass. 

“ It’s only a subpoena inBardell and Pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,” replied 
fackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and producing a shilling from 
nis waistcoat pocket. “ It’ll come on, in the settens after Term ; fourteenth ol 
Febooary^ we expect ; we’ve marked it a special jury cause, and it’s only ten down 
the paper. That’s your’s, Mr. Snodgrass.” As Jackson said this he presented 
the parchment before the eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the 
shilling into his hand. 

Ml. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when Jackson, 
turning sharply upon him, said ; 

“ I think I ain’t mistaken when I say your name’s Tupman, am I ? ” 

hir. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwdek ; but, perceiving no encouragement in 
that gentleman’s widely-opened eyes to deny his name, said ; 

“ Yes, my name is Tupman, sir.” 

“ And that other gentleman’s Mr. Winkle, I think ?” said Jackson. 

Mr. Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative ; and both gentlemen were forth* 
with invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the dexterous Mr. Jackson. 

-Now,” said Jackson, “I’m afraid you’ll think me rather troublesome, but \ 
want som ebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller’s name here, 
Mr. Pi( kwick.” 


Legal Service. 261 


* Send my servant here, waiter,” said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retiied, con- 
sideiably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat. 

There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent 
defendant. 

“ I suppose, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he spoke ; 
“ I suppose, sir, that it is the intention of your employers to seek to criminate me 
upon the testimony of my own friends ? ” 

Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of his nose, 
to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of the prison-house, and 
playfully rejoined : 

“Not knowin’, can’t say.” 

“For what other reason, sir,” pursued Mr. Pickwick, “ are these subpoenas 
served upon them, if not for this ? ” 

“ Veiy good plant. Mi Pickwick,” replied Jackson, slowly shaking his head. 
“ But it won’t do. No harm in trying, but there’s little to be got out of 
me.” , 

Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his 
left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with his right 
hand : thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime (then much in vogue, 
but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was familiarly denominated “taking 
a grinder.” 

“ No, no, Mr. Pickwick,” said Jackson, in conclusion; “ Perker’s people must 
guess what we’ve served these subpoenas for. If they can’t, they must wait till 
the action comes on, and then they’ll find out.” 

Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor, 
and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the heads of Messrs. 
Dodson and Fogg, had not Sam’s entrance at the instant interrupted him. 

“ Samuel Weller said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly. 

“ Vun o’ the truest things as you’ve said for many a long year,” replied Sam, 
in a most composed manner. 

“ Here’s a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,” said Jackson. 

“ What’s that in English ? ” inquired Sam. 

“ Here’s the original,” said Jackson, declining the required explanation. 

“ Which ? ” said Sam. 

“ This,” replied Jackson, shaking the parchment. 

“ Oh, that’s the ’rig’nal, is it ? ” said Sam. “ Well, I’m wery glad I’ve seen 
the ’rig’nal, ’cos it’s a gratifyin’ sort o’ thing, and eases vim’s mind so much.” 

“ And here’s the shilling,” said Jackson. “ It’s from Dodson and Fogg’s.” 

“ And it’s uncommon handsome o’ Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of 
me, to come down vith a present,” said Sam. “ I feel it as a wery high compli 
ment, sir ; it’s a wery hon’rable thing to them, as they knows how to reward 
merit werever they meets it. Besides wich, it’s affectin’ to one’s feelin’s.” 

As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right eye-lid, witi 
the sleeve of his coat, after the most approved manner of actors when they are in 
domestic pathetics. 

Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam’s proceedings ; but, as he had served 
the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of putting on the one 
glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the sake of appearances ; and 
returned to the office to report progress. 

Mr. Pickwick slept little that night ; his memory had received a very disa^ee- 
able refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell’s action. He breakfasted betimes 
next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him, set foith towards Gray’s Inn 
Square. 


262 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Sam ! ” said Mr. Pickwick, looldng round, when tliey got to the dnd ot 
Cheapside. 

“ Sir ? ” said Sam, stepping up to his master. 

« Which way ? ” 

“ Up Newgate Street.” 

Mr, Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in Sam’s 
face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh. 

“ What’s the matter, sir ? ” inquired Sam. 

“ This action, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ is expected to come on, on the 
fourteenth of next month.” 

“ Remarkable coinadence that ’ere, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ Why, remarkable, Sam ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Walentine’s day, sir,” responded Sam; “reg’lar good day for a breach o’ 
promise trial.” 

Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’s countenance. 
Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round, and led the way in^ silence. 

They had walked some distance : Mr. Pickwick trotting on before, plunged in 
profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive 
of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and everybody : when the 
latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive 
information he possessed, quickened his pace until he was close at Mr. Pickwick’s 
heels ; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said : 

“ Wery nice pork-shop that ’ere, sir.” 

“ Yes, it seems so,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Celebrated Sassage factoiy,” said Sam. 

“ Is it ? ” said Mr. Pickwick, 

“ Is it ! ” reiterated Sam, with some indignation ; “ I should rayther think it 
was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that’s were the mysterious disap- 
pearance of a ’spectable tradesman took place four year ago.” 

“ You don’t mean to say he was burked, Sam said Mr. Pickwick, looking 
hastily round. 

“ No, I don’t indeed, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, “ I wish I did ; far worse than 
that. He was the master o’ that ’ere shop, sir, and the inwenter o’ the patent- 
never-leavin’-off’ sassage steam ingine, as ud swaller up a pavin’ stone if you put 
it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy as if it was a tender young babby. 
Wery proud o’ that machine he was, as it was nat’ral he should be, and he’d 
stand down in the celler a lookin’ at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite 
melancholy with joy. A wery happy man he’d ha’ been, sir, in the procession o’ 
chat ’ere ingine and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn’t been for his 
wife, who was a most ow-dacious v/ixin. She was always a follerin’ him about, 
and dinnin’ in his ears, ’till at last he couldn’t stand it no longer. ‘ I’ll tell you 
what it is, my dear,’ he says one day ; ‘ if you persewere in this here sort of 
amusement,’ he says, ‘ I’m blessed if I don’t go away to ’Merriker ; and that’s all 
about it.’ ‘You’re a idle willin,’ says she, ‘ and I wish the ’Merrikins joy of their 
bargain.’ Al ter wich she keeps on abusin’ of him for half an hour, and then niris 
into the little parlour behind the shop, sets to a screamin’, says he’ll be the death 
on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours — one o’ them fits wich 
is all screamin’ and kickin’. Well, next mornin’, the husband was missin’. He 
hadn’t taken nothin’ from the till, — hadn’t even put on his great-coat — so it was 
quite deal he wam’t gone to ’Merriker. Didn’t come back next day ; didn’t 
come back next week ; Missis had bills printed, sayin’ that, if he’d come back, he 
should be forgiven everythin’ (udiich u^as veiy liberal, seein’ that he hadn’t done 
fiothin’ at aU) ; the canals was dragged, and for two months arteivards, wen« 


Legal Fictions. 


I 


263 

•ver a body turned up, it was carried, as a reg’lar tiling, straight off to the sassage 
fihop. Hows’ever, none on ’em answered ; so they gave out that he’d run avay, 
and she kep on the bis’ness. One Saturday night, a little thin old gen’l’m’n 
comes into the shop in a great passion and says, ‘ Are you the missis o’ this here 
shop ?’ ‘ Yes, I am,’ says she. ‘Well, ma’am,’ says he, ‘then I’ve just looked 

in to say that me and my family ain’t a goin’ to be choked for nothin’ ; and more 
than that, ma’am,’ he says, ‘ you’ll allow me to observe, that as you don’t use the 
primest parts of the meat in the manafacter o’ sassages, I think you’d find beef 
come nearly as cheap as buttons.’ ‘ As buttons, sir ! ’ says she. ‘ Buttons, 
ma’am,’ says the little old gentleman, unfolding a bit of paper, and shewin’ 
twenty or thirty halves o’ buttons. ‘ Nice seasonin’ for sassages, is trousers’ 
buttons, ma’am.’ ‘ They’re my husband’s buttons ! ’ says the widder, beginnin’ to 
faint. ‘ What ! ’ screams the little old gen’l’m’n, turnin’ wery pale. ‘ I see it all,’ 
says the widder ; ‘ in a fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted his-self into 
sassages ! ’ And so he had, sir,” said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr. 
Pickwick’s horror-stricken countenance, “ or else he’d been draw’d into the 
ingine ; but however that might ha’ been, the little old gen’l’m’n, who had been 
remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o’ the shop in a wild state, 
and was never heerd on artervards ! ” 

The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and man 
to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open, was in con- 
versation with a rustily-clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes and 
gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation and suffering — almost of 
despair — in his lank and care-wom countenance ; he felt his poverty, for he shrunk 
to the dark side of the staircase as INIr. Pickwick approached. 

“ It’s very unfortunate,” said the stranger, with a sigh. 

“Very,” said Lowten, scribbling his name on the door-post with his pen, and 
rubbing it out again with the feather. “ Will you leave a message for him ? ” 

“ When do you think he’ll be back.?” inquired the stranger. 

“ Quite uncertain,” replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the stranger 
cast his eyes towards the ground. 

“ You don’t think it would be of any use my waiting for him .?” said the stranger, 
looking wistfully into the office. 

“ Oh no, I’m sme it wouldn’t,” replied the clerk, moving a little more into the 
centre of the door- way. “ He’s certain not to be back this week, and it’s a chance 
whether he will be next ; for when Perker once gets out of town, he’s never in a 
hurry to come back again.” 

“ Out of town ! ” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ dear me, how unfortunate ! ” 

“Don’t go away, Mr. Pickwick,” said Lowten, “I’ve got a letter for you.” 
The stranger seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground, and the 
clerk winlced slily at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate that some exquisite piece of 
humour was going forward, though what it was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life 
of him divine. 

“ Step in, Mr. Pickwick,” said Lowten. “Well, will you leave a message, 
Mr. Watty, or will you call again .? ” 

“ Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in n»y 
business,” said the man ; “ for God’s sake don’t neglect it, Mr. Lowten.” 

“No, no; I won’t forget it,” replied the clerk. “Walk in, Mr. Pickwick. 
Good morning, Mr. Watty ; it’s a fine day for walking, isn’t it .?” Seeing that the 
stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to foUow his master in, and shut 
the door in his face. 

“ There never was such a pesterir.g bankrupt as that since the world began, I 
do believe ! ” said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air 9f an injured man. 


The Pickwick Club. 


264 


“ His Affairs haven’t been in Chancer)^ quite four years yet, and I’m d — d if he 
don’t come wonying here twice a week. Step this way, Mr. Pickwick. Perkef 
is in, and he’ll see you, I know. Devilish cold,” he added, pettishly, “standing 
at that door, wasting one’s time with such seedy vagabonds ! ” Having very 
vehemently stirred a particularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the 
clerk led the way to his principal’s private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Ah, my dear sir,” said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair. “ Well, 
my dear sir, and what’s the news about your matter, eh ? Anything more abou' 
our friends in Freeman’s Court ? They’ve not been sleeping, /know that. Ah, 
they’re veiy’ smart fellows ; very smart, indeed.” 

As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a tribute to 
the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg. 

“ They are great scoundrels,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Aye, aye,” said the little man ; “ that’s a matter of opinion, you know, and 
we won’t dispute about terms ; because of course you can’t be expected to view 
these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we’ve done everything that’s neces- 
sary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin.” 

“ Is he a good man ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“Good man!” replied Perker; “bless your heart and soul, my dear sir, 
Serjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble the business of 
any man in court — engaged in eveiy case. You needn’t mention it abroad ; but we 
sa)' — we of the profession — that Serjeant Snubbin leads the court by the nose.” 

The little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this communication, and 
nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick. 

“ They have subpoena’d my three friends,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Ah \ of course they would,” replied Perker. “ Important witnesses ; saw you 
in a delicate situation.” 

“ But she fainted of her own accord,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ She threw herself 
into my aims.” 

“Veiy likely, my dear sir,” replied Perker; “very likely and very natural. 
Nothing more so, my dear sir, nothing. But who’s to prove it } ” 

“ They have subpoena’d my servant too,” said Mr. Pickwick, quitting the other 
point ; for there Mr. Perker’s question had somewhat staggered him. 

“ Sam said Perker. 

hir. Pickwick replied in the affirmative. 

“ Of course, my dear sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have told 
you that, a month ago. You know, my dear sir, if you will take the management 
of your affairs into yonr own hands after intrusting them to your solicitor, you 
must also take the consequences.” Here Mr. Perker drew himself up with con- 
scious dignity, and brushed some stray grains of snuff from his shirt frill. 

“And what do they want him to prove?” asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or 
three minutes’ silence. 

“ That you sent him up to the plaintiff’s to make some offer of a compromise, 
I suppose,” replied Perker. “ It don’t matter much, though ; I don’t think many 
counsel could get a great deal out of hhn'' 

“ I don’t think they could,” said Mr. Pickwick; smiling, despite his vexation, 
at the idea of Sam’s appearance as a witness. “ What course do we pursue ?” 

“ We have only one to adopt, my dear sir,” replied Perker ; “ cross-examine 
the witnesses ; trust to Snubbin’s eloquence ; throw dust in the eyes of the judge ; 
throw ourselves on the jury.” 

“ And suppose the verdict is against me ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire, slirugged 
his shoulders, and remained expressively silent. 


IVith the Serjeant's Clerk. 26^ 

“You mean that in that case I must pay the damages ?” said Mr. Pickwick, 
who had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness. 

Perkei gave the fire another very unnecessary poke, and said “ I am afraid so.’' 

“ Then I beg to announce to you, my unalterable deteiminadon to pay no 
damages whatever,” said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. “ None, Perker. Not 
a pound, not a penny, of my money, shall find its way into the pockets of Dodson 
and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable determination.” Mr. Pickwick 
gave a heavy blow on the table before him, in confirmation of the irrevocability of 
his intention. 

“ Very well, my dear sir, very well,” said Perker. “ You know best, of 
course.” 

“ Of course,” replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. “ Where does Serjeant Snubbin 
live .?” 

“ In Lincoln’s Inn Old Square,” replied Perker. 

“ I should like to see him,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear sir!” rejoined Perker, in utter amazement. 
“ Pooh, pooh, my dear sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin I Bless you, my 
dear sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a consultation fee being pre- 
viously paid, and a consultation fixed. It couldn’t be done, my dear sir; it 
couldn’t be done.” 

Mr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be done, 
but that it should be done ; and the consequence was, that within ten minutes 
after he had received the assurance that the thing was impossible, he was con- 
ducted by his solicitor into the outer office of the ^eat Serjeant Snubbin himself. 

It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing-table 
drawn up near the fire : the baize top of which had long since lost all claim to its 
original hue of green, and had gradually grown grey with dust and age, except 
where all traces of its natural colour were obliterated by ink-stains. Upon the 
tab' 2 were numerous little bundles of papers tied with red tape ; and behind it, 
sat an elderly clerk, whose sleek appearance, and heavy gold watch-chain, pre- 
sented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative practice of Mr. Serjeant 
Snubbin. 

“ Is the Seijeant in his room, Mr. Mallard .?” inquired Perker, offering his box 
with all imaginable courtesy. 

“ Yes he is,” was the reply, “ but he’s very busy. Look here ; not an opinion 
given yet, on any one of these cases ; and an expedition fee paid with all of ’em.” 
The cleik smiled as he said this, and inhaled the pinch of snuff with a zest which 
seemed to be compounded of a fondness for snuff and a relish for fees. 

“ Something like practice that,” said Perker. 

“ Yes,” said the barrister’s clerk, producing his own box, and offering it with 
the greatest cordiality ; “ and the best of it is, that as nobody alive except myself 
can read the Serjeant’s writing, they are obliged to wait for the opinions, when 
he has given them, till I have copied ’em, ha— ha— ha I ” 

“ Wliich makes good for we know who, besides the Serjeant, and draws a 
little more out of the clients, eh.?” said Perker; “Ha, ha, ha!” At this the 
Serjeant’s clerk laughed again ; not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a silent, internal 
chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a man bleeds inwardly, it 
is a dangerous thing for himself ; but when he laughs inwardly, it bodes no good 

to other people. . , , , 

“ You haven’t made me out that little list of the fees that I’m m your debt, have 

you ?” said Perker. 

“ No, I have not,” replied the clerk. 

“ t wish you would,” said Perker. “ Let me have them, and I’ll send you a 


a66 


The Pickwick Club. 


cheque. But I suppose you’re too busy pocketing the ready money, to think ol 
the debtds, eh ? ha, ha, ha !” This sally seemed to tickle the clerk amazingly, 
and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to himself. 

“ But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend,” said Perker, suddenly recovering his 
gravity, and drawing the great man’s gi'eat man into a corner, by the lappel of his 
coat ; “ you must persuade the Serjeant to see me, and my client here.” 

“ Come, come,” said the clerk, “ that’s not bad either. See the Serjeant ! 
come, that’s too absurd.” Notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal, how- 
ever, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing of Mr. 
Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers, walked softly 
down a little dark passage, and disappeared into the legal luminary’s sanctum : 
whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and infonned Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick 
that the Serjeant had been prevailed upon, in violation of all established rules 
and customs, to admit them at once. 

Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of about 
five-and-forty, or— as the novels say— he might be fifty. He had that dull-looking 
boiled eye which is often to be seen in the heads of people who have applied 
themselves during many years to a weary and laborious course of study ; and 
which would have been sufficient, without the additional eye-glass which dangled 
from a broad black riband round his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very 
near-sighted. His hair was thin and weak, which was partly attributable to his 
having never devoted much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn 
for five-and-twenty years the forensic vifig which hung on a block beside him. 
The marks of hair-powder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed and worse tied 
white neckerchief round his throat, showed that he had not found leisure since he 
left the court to make any alteration in his dress : while the slovenly style of the 
remainder of his costume warranted the inference that his personal appearance 
v.’ould not have been very much improved if he had. Books of practice, heaps of 
papers, and opened letters, were scattered over the table, without any attempt at 
order or arrangement ; the furniture of the room was old and ricketty ; the doors 
of the book-case were rotting in their hinges ; the dust flew out from the carpet 
in little clouds at every step ; the blinds were yellow with age and dirt ; the 
state of everything in the room showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken, that 
Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied with his professional pursuits 
to take any great heed or regard of his personal comforts. 

The Serjeant was writing when his clients entered ; he bowed abstractedly when 
Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning them to a 
seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left leg, and waited to be 
spoken to. 

“ Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant Snubbin,” 
said Perker. 

“ I am retained in that, am I said the Serjeant. 

“You are, sir,” replied Perker. 

The Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else. 

“Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin,” said Perker, 
•* to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he denies there being any 
ground or pretence whatever for the action against him ; and that unless he came 
into court with clean hands, and without the most conscientious conviction that he 
was light in resisting the plaintiff’s demand, he would not be there at all. ] 
believe I state your views correctly ; do I not, my dear sir ?” said the little man, 
turning to Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Quite so,” replied that gentleman. 

Mr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes ; and, aftex 


JVith the Serjeant. 


267 


looTiing at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with gieat curiosity, turned to Mr. 
Perker, and said smiling slightly as he spoke ; 

“ Has Mr. Pickwick a strong case ? ” 

The attorney shrugged his shoulders. 

“ Do vou purpose calling witnesses ?’* 

“No.’* 

The smile on the Serjeant’s countenance became more defined ; he rocked his 
leg with increased violence ; and, throwing himself back in his easy-chair, coughed 
dubiously. 

These tokens of the Serjeant’s presentiments on the subject, slight as they were, 
were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles, through which he had 
attentively regarded such demonstrations of the barrister’s feelings as he had per- 
mitted himself to exhibit, more firmly on his nose ; and said with great energy, 
and in utter disregard of all Mr. Perker’s admonitoiy winkings and frownings ; 

“ My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, sir, appears, I have 
no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you must neces- 
sarily do, a very extraordinaiy circumstance.” 

The Seijeant tried to look giavely at the fire, but the smile came back again. 

“ Gentlemen of 5'our profession, sir,” continued Mr. Pickwick, “ see the worst 
side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad blood, rise up before 
you. You know from your experience of juries (I mean no disparagement to you, 
or them) how much depends upon effect : and you are apt to attribute to others, a 
desire to use, for purposes of deception and self-interest, the very instniments 
which you. in pure honesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to 
do your utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well, from con- 
stantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to this circumstance may 
be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of your being, as a body, suspicious, 
distrustful, and over-cautious. Conscious as I am, sir, of the disadvantage of 
making such a declaration to you, under such circumstances, I have come here, 
because I wish you distinctly to understand, as my friend Mr. Perker has said, 
that I am innocent of the falsehood laid to my charge ; and although I am very well 
aware of the inestimable value of your assistance, sir, I must beg to add, that unless 
you sincerely believe this, I would rather be deprived of the aid of your talents 
than have the advantage of them.” 

Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of a very 
prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed into a state of abstrac- 
tion. After some minutes, however, during which he had reassumed his pen, he 
appeared to be again aware of the presence of his clients ; raising his head 
from the paper, he said, rather snappishly, 

“ Who is with me in this case 

“ Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,” replied the attorney. 

“ Phunky, Phunky,” said the Serjeant, “ I never heard the name before. He 
must be a very young man.” 

“ Yes, he is a very young man,” replied the attorney. “ He was only called 
the other day. Let me see — he has not been at the Bar eight years yet.” 

“ Ah, I thought not,” said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying tone in which 
ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. “Mr. Mallard, send 
round to Mr. — Mr. — 

“ Phuuky’s — Holbom Court, Gray’s Inn,” interposed Perker. (Holbom Court, 
by the bye, is South Square now). “ Mr. Phunky, and say I should be glad if 
he ’d step here, a moment.” 

Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission ; and Seijeant Snubbin relapsed 
into abstraction until Mr. Phunlcy himself was introduced. 


268 


The Pickwick Club. 


Although an infant banister, he was a full grown man. He had a very nervous 
manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech ; it did not sppear to be a natural 
defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity, arising from the consciousness of 
being “ kept down” by want of means, or interest, or connexion, or impudence, 
as the case might be. He was overawed by the Seijeant, and profoundly cour- 
teous to the attorney. 

“ 1 have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,” said Seijeanl 
Snubbin, with haughty condescension. 

Mr. Phunky bowed. He had had the pleasure of seeing the Seijeant, and of 
envying him too, vith all a poor man’s envy, for eight years and a quarter. 

“ You are with me in this case, I understand said the Seijeant. 

If Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his clerk 
to remind him ; if he had been a wise one, he would have applied his fore-finger 
to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether, in the multiplicity of his 
engagements he had undertaken this one, or not ; but as he was neither rich nor 
wise (in this sense at all events) he turned red, and bowed. 

“ Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky } ” inquired the Seijeant. 

Here again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about the 
merits of the case ; but as he had read such papers as had been laid before him in 
the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else, waking or sleeping, 
throughout the two months during which he had been retained as Mr. Serjeant 
Snubbin’s junior, he turned a deeper red, and bowed again. 

“This is Mr. Pickwick,” said the Seijeant, waving his pen in the direction in 
which that gentleman was standing. 

Mr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick with a reverence which a first client must 
ever awaken ; and again inclined his head towards his leader. 

“ Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away,” said the Seijeant, “and — and — 
and — hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate. We shall have a 
consultation, of course.” With this hint that he had been interrupted quite long 
enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been gradually growing more and more 
abstracted, applied his glass to his eyes for an instant, bowed slightly round, and 
was once more deeply immersed in the case before him : which arose out of an 
interminable lawsuit, originating in the act of an individual, deceased a century or 
so ago, who had stopped up a pathway leading from some place which nobody 
ever came from, to some other place which nobody ever went to. 

Mr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr. Pickwick 
and his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was some time before they 
got into the Square ; and when they did reach it, they walked up and down, and 
held a long conference, the result of which was, that it was a very difficult matter 
to say how the verdict would go ; that nobody could presume to calculate on the 
issue of an action ; that it was very lucky they had prevented the other party from 
getting Se^eant Snubbin ; and other topics of doubt and consolation, common in 
such a position of affairs. 

Mr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an hour’s dura< 
tion ; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the City. 


Mr. Sawyer expects Company. 


•iSg 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

DESCRIBES, VAR MORE FULLY THAN THE COURT NEWSMAN EVER DID, A 
bachelor’s party, GIVEN BY MR. BOB SAWYER AT HIS LODGINGS IN THE 
BOROUGH. 

There is a repose about Lant Street, in the borough, which sheds a gentle melan- 
choly upon the soul. There are always a good many houses to let in the street : 
it is a bye-street too, and its dulness is soothing. A house in Lant Street w'ould 
not come within the denomination of a first-rate residence, in the strict acceptation 
of the term ; but it is a most desirable spot nevertheless. If a man wished to 
attract himself from the world — to remove himself from within the reach of 
temptation — to place himself beyond the possibility of any inducement to look out 
of the window — he should by all means go to Lant Street. 

In this happy retreat are colonised a few’ clear-starchers, a sprinkling of journey- 
men bookbinders, one or two prison agents for the Insolvent Court, several ^mall 
housekeepers who are employed in the Docks, a handful of mantua-makers, and a 
seasoning of jobbing tailors. The majority of the inhabitants either direct their 
energies to the letting of furnished apartments, or devote themselves to the health- 
ful and invigorating pursuit of mangling. The chief features in the still life of 
the street are green shutters, lodging-bills, brass door-plates, and bell-handles ; 
the principal specimens of animated nature, the pot-boy, the muffin youth, and the 
baked-potato man. The population is migratoiy, usually disappearing on the 
verge of quarter-day, and generally by night. His Majesty’s revenues are seldom 
collected in this happ)'^ valley ; the rents are dubious ; and the water communica- 
tion is very frequently cut off. 

Mr. Bob Sawyer embellished one side of the fire, in his first-floor front, early on 
the evening for which he had invited Mr. Pickwick ; and Mr. Ben Allen the other. 
The preparations for the reception of visitors appeared to be completed. The 
umbrellas in the passage had been heaped into the little comer outside the back- 
parlour door ; the bonnet and shawd of the landlady’s servant had been removed 
from the bannisters ; there were not more than two pairs of pattens on the street- 
door mat, and a kitchen candle, with a very long snuff, burnt cheerfully on the 
ledge of the staircase window. Mr. Bob Sawyer had himself purchased the spirits 
at a wine vaults in High Street, and had returned home preceding the bc^arer 
thereof, to preclude the possibility of their deliveiy at the wrong house. The 
punch was ready-made in a red pan in the bed-room ; a little table, covered with 
a green baize cloth, had been borrowed from the parlour, to play at cards on ; and 
the glasses of the establishment, together with those which had been borrowed foi 
the occasion from the public-house, were all drawn up in a tray, which was depo- 
sited on the landing outside the door. 

Notwithstanding the highly satisfactory nature of all these arrangements, theie 
was a cloud on the countenance of Mr. Bob Sawyer, as he sat by the fire-side.^ 
There v/as a sympathising expression, too, in the features of Mr. Ben Allen, as he 
gazed intently on the coals ; and a tone of melancholy in his voice, as he said, 
aftei a long silence ; 

“ Well, it is unlucky she should have taken it in her head to turn sour, just on 
this occasion. She might at least have waited till to-morrow.” 

“ That’s her malevolence, that’s her malevolence,” returned Mr. Bob Savyer, 
vehemently. “ She says that if I can afford to give a party I ought to be able to 
pay her confounded ‘ liule bill.’ ” 

“ How ^ong has it been running ? ” inquired Mr. Ben Allen. A bill, by the 


The Pickwick Club, 


270 

bye, is tlie most extraordinary locomotive engine that the genius of man ever pro- 
duced. It would keep on running during the longest lifetime, without ever once 
stopping of its own accord. 

“ Only a quarter, and a month or so,” replied Mr. Bob Sa^vyer. 

Ben Allen coughed hopelessly, and directed a searching look between the two 
top bars of the stove. 

“ It’U be a deuced unpleasant thing if she takes it into her head to let out, wher 
those fellows are here, won’t it ? ” said Mr. Ben Allen at length. 

“ Horrible,” replied Bob Sawyer, “ horrible.” 

A low tap was heard at the room door. Mr. Bob Sawyer looked expressively 
at his friend, and bade the tapper come in ; whereupon a dirty slipshod girl in black 
cotton stockings, who might have passed for the neglected daughter of a superan- 
nuated dustman in very reduced circumstances, thrust in her head, and said, 

“ Please, Mister Sawyer, Missis Raddle wants to speak io you. 

Before Mr. Bob Sawyer could return any answer, the girl suddenly disappeared 
with a jerk, as if somebody had given her a violent pull behind ; this mysterious 
exit was no sooner accomplished, than there was another tap at the door — a smart 
pointed tap, which seemed to say, “ Here I am, and in I’m coming.” 

Mr. Bob Sawyer glanced at his friend with a look of abject apprehension, and 
once more cried “ Come in.” 

The permission was not at all necessary, for, before Mr. Bob Sawyer had 
uttered the words, a little fierce woman bounced into the room, aU in a tremble 
with passion, and pale with rage. 

“ Now Mr. Sawyer,” said the little fierce woman, trying to appear very calm, 
“if you’ll have the kindness to settle that little bill of mine I’ll thank you, because 
I’ve got my rent to pay this afternoon, and my landlord’s a waiting below now.” 
Here the little woman rubbed her hands, and looked steadily over Mr. Bob 
Sawyer’s head, at the wall behind him. 

“ I am very sorry to put you to any inconvenience, Mrs. Raddle,” said Bob 
Sawyer, deferentially, “ but ” 

“ Oh, it isn’t any inconvenience,” replied the little woman, with a shrill titter. 
“ I didn’t want it particular before to-day ; leastways, as it has to go to my land- 
lord directly, it was as well for you to keep it as me. You promised me this after- 
noon, Mr. Sawyer, and eveiy gentleman as has ever lived here, has kept his word, 
sir, as of course anybody as calls himself a gentleman, does.” Mrs. Raddle tossed 
her head, bit her lips, rubbed her hands harder, and looked at the wall more 
steadily than ever. It was plain to see, as Mr. Bob Sawyer remarked in a style of 
eastern allegory on a subsequent occasion, that she was “ getting the steam up.” 

“ I am veiy sorry, Mrs. Raddle,” said Bob Sawyer with all imaginable humility, 
“ but the fact is, that I have been disappointed in the City to-day.” — Extraordinary 
place that City. An astonishing number of men always are getting disappointed 
there. 

“ Well, Mr. Sawyer,” said Mrs. Raddle, planting herself firmly on a purple 
cauliflower in the Kidderminster carpet, “ and what’s that to me, sir ” 

“ I — I — have no doubt, Mrs. Raddle,” said Bob Sawyer, blinking this last 
question, “ that before the mridle of next week we shall be able to set ourselves 
quite square, and go on, on a better system, afterwards.” 

This was all Mrs. Raddle wanted. She had bustled up to the apartment of the 
unlucky Bob Saw^^er, so bent upon going into a passion, that, in all probability, 
payment would have rather disappointed her than otherwise. She was in excellent 
order for a little relaxation of the kind : having just exchanged a few introductory 
conipliments with Mr. R. in the front kitchen. 

‘ Do you suppose, Mr. Sawyer,” said Mrs. Raddle, elevating her voice for th« 


Mrs. Raddle relieves her Mind. 


271 


information of the neighbours, “ do you suppose that I’m a-going day after day to 
let a fellar occupy my lodgings as never thinks of paying his rent, nor even the 
very money laid out for the fresh butter and lump sugar that’s bought for his 
breakfast, and the veiy milk that’s took in, at the street door ? Do you suppose a 
hard-working and industrious woman as has lived in this street for twenty yeai 
(ten year over the way, and nine year and three quarter in this very house) has 
nothing else to do but to work herself to death after a parcel of lazy idle fellars, that 
are always smoking and drinking, and lounging, when they ought to be glad 
to turn their hands to anything that would help ’em to pay their bills ? Do 
you ” 

“My good soul,” interposed Mr. Benjamin Allen, soothingly. 

“Have the goodness to keep your obsei-vashuns to yourself, sir, I beg,” said 
Mrs. Raddle, suddenly arresting the rapid tonent of her speech, and addressing 
the third party with impressive slowness and solemnity. “I am not aweer, sir, 
that you have any right to address your conversation to me. I don’t think I let 
these apartments to you, sir.” 

“ No, you certainly did not,” said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

“ Very good, sir,” responded Mrs, Raddle, with lofty politeness. “ Then p’raps, 
sir, you’ll confine yourself to breaking the arms and legs of the poor people in the 
hospitals, and keep yourself to yourself, sir, or there may be some persons here as 
will make you, sir.” 

“ But you are such an unreasonable woman,” remonstrated Mr. Benjamin 
Allen. 

“ I beg your parding, young man,” said Mrs. Raddle, in a cold perspiration of 
anger. “ But will you have the goodness just to call me that again, sir 

“ I didn’t make use of the word in any invidious sense, ma’am,” replied Mr. 
Benjamin Allen, growing somewhat uneasy on his own account. 

“I beg your parding, young man,” demanded Mrs. Raddle in a louder and 
more imperative tone. “ But who do you call a woman ? Did you make that 
remark to me, sir.?” 

“Why, bless my heart!” said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

“ Did you apply that name to me, I ask of you, sir .?” interrupted Mrs. Raddle, 
with intense fierceness, throwing the door wide open. 

“Why, of course I did,” replied Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

“Yes, of course you did,” said Mrs. Raddle, backing gradually to the door, 
and raising her voice to its loudest pitch, for the special behoof of Mr. Raddle in 
the kitchen. “Yes, of course you did I And everybody knows that they may 
safely insult me in my own ouse while my husband sits sleeping down stairs, and 
taking no more notice than if I was a dog in the streets. He ought to be ashamed 
of himself (here Mrs. Raddle sobbed) to allow his wife to be treated in this way 
by a parcel of young cutters and carvers of live people’s bodies, that disgraces the 
lodgings (another sob), and leaving her exposed to all manner of abuse; a base, 
faint-hearted, timorous wretch, that’s afraid to come up stairs, and face the ruffinly 
creatures — that’s afraid — that’s afraid to come I ” Mrs. Raddle paused to listen 
whether the repetition of the taunt had roused her bettei half ; and, finding that it 
had not been successful, proceeded to descend the stairs with sobs innumerable : 
when there came a loud double knock at the street door : whereupon she burst 
into an hysterical fit of weeping, accompanied with dismal moans, which was 
p.olonged until the knock had been repeated six times, when, in an uncontrollable 
D'lrst of mental agony, she threw down all the umbrellas, and disappeared into 
the back parlour, closing the door after her with an awful crash. 

“Does Mr. Sawyer live here ?” said Mr. Pickwick, when the door was opened. 

“Yes,” said the girl, “first floor. It’s the door s*raight afore you, when you 


The Pickwick Club, 


272 

gets to the top of the stairs.” Having given this instruction, the handmaid, who 
had been brought up among the aboriginal inhabitants of Southwark, disappeared, 
with the candle in her hand, down the kitchen stairs : perfectly satisfied that 
she had done everything that could possibly be required of her under the cir- 
cumstances. 

Mr. Snodgrass, who entered last, secured the street door, after several ineffectual 
efforts, by putting up the chain ; and the friends stumbled up stairs, where they 
were received by Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been afraid to go down, lest he should 
be waylaid by Mrs. Raddle. 

“ How are you 1 " said the discomfited student. “ Glad to see you, — take care 
of the glasses.” This caution was addressed to Mr. Pickwick, who had put his 
hat in the tray. 

“ Dear me,” said Mr. Pickwick, “I beg your pardon.” 

“ Don’t mention it, don’t mention it,” said Bob Sawyer. “ I’m rather confined 
for room here, but you must put up with all that, when you come to see a young 
bachelor. Walk in. You’ve seen this gentleman Ijefore, I think .?” Mr. Pickwick 
shook hands with Mr. Benjamin Allen, and his friends followed his example. They 
had scarcely taken their seats when there was another double knock. 

“I hope that’s Jack Hopkins!” said Mr. Bob Sawyer. “Hush. Yes, it is. 
Come up. Jack ; come up.” 

A heavy footstep was heard upon the stairs, and Jack Hopkins presented him 
self. He wore a black velvet waistcoat, with thunder-and-lightning buttons ; and 
a blue striped shirt, with a white false collar. 

“You’re late. Jack said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

“ Been detained at Bartholomew’s,” replied Hopkins. 

“Anything new 

“No, nothing particular. Rather a good accident brought into the casualty 
ward.” 

“What was that, sir.?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Only a man fallen out of a four pair of stairs’ window ; — ^but it’s a very fail 
case — very fair case indeed.” 

“Do you mean that the patient is in a fair way to recover?” inquired Mi. 
Pickwick. 

“No,” replied Hopkins, carelessly. “No, I should rather say he wouldn’t. 
There must be a splendid operation though, to-morrow — magnificent sight if 
Slasher does it.” 

“ You consider Mr. Slasher a good operator ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Best alive,” replied Hopkins. “ Took a boy’s leg out of the socket last week 
— boy ate five apples and a gingerbread cake — exactly two minutes after it was all 
over, boy said he wouldn’t lie there to be made game of, and he’d tell his mother 
if they didn’t begin.” 

“ Dear me !” said Mr. Pickwick, astonished. 

“ Pooh ! That’s nothing, that ain’t,” said Jack Hopkins. “Is it, Bob ?” 

“Nothing at all,” replied Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“By the bye. Bob,” said Hopkins, with a scarcely perceptible glance at 
Mr. Pickwick’s attentive face, “ we had a curious accident last night. A child 
was brought in, who had swallowed a necklace.” 

“ Swallowed what, sir ?” interrupted Mr. Pickwick. 

“A necklace,” replied Jack Hopkins. “Not all at once, you know, that would 
be too much— couldn’t swallow that, if the child did — eh, Mr. Pickwick, ha ! 
na I ” Mr. Hopkins appeared highly gratified with his own pleasantry ; and con- 
tinued. “ No, the way was this. Child’s parents were poor people who lived in a 
court. Child’s eldest sister bought a necklace ; common necklace, made of large 


Remarhahle Anecdote o f a Kechlace. 


black wooden beads. Child, being fond of toys, cribbed the necklace, hid it, 
played with it, cut the string, and swallowed a bead. Child thought it capital 
fun, went back next day, and swallowed another bead.” 

“ Bless my heart,” said Mr. Pickwick, “what a dreadful thing! I beg your 
paidou, sir. Go on.” 

“ Next day, child swallowed two beads; the day after that, he treated himself 
to three, and so on, till in a week’s time he had got through the necldace — five- 
and-twenty beads in all. The sister, who was an industrious girl, and seldom 
treated herself to a bit of finery, cried her eyes out, at the loss of the necklace ; 
looked high and low for it ; but, I needn’t say, didn’t find it. A few days after- 
wards, the family were at dinner — baked shoulder of mutton, and potatoes under 
it — the child, who wasn’t hungry, was playing about the room, when suddenly 
there was heard a devil of a noise, like a small hail storm. ‘Don’t cio that, my 
boy,’ said the father. ‘I ain’t a doin’ nothing,’ said the child. ‘ Well, don’t do 
it again,’ said the father. There was a short silence, and then the noise began 
again, worse than ever. ‘ If you don’t mind what I say, my boy,’ said the father, 
‘you’ll find yourself in bed, in something less than a pig’s whisper.’ He gave the 
child a shake to make him obedient, and such a rattling ensued as nobody ever heard 
before. ‘ Why, damme, it’s in the child ! ’ said the father, ‘ he’s got the croup in 
the wrong place !’ ‘ No I haven’t, father,’ said the child, beginning to cry, ‘ it’s 

the necklace ; I swallowed it, father.’ — The father caught the child up, and ran 
with him to the hospital : the beads in the boy’s stomach rattling all the way with 
the jolting ; and the people looking up in the air, and down in the cellars, to see 
where the unusual sound came from. He’s in the hospital now,” said Jack Hop- 
kins, “ and he makes such a devil of a noise when he walks about, that they’re 
obliged to muffle him in a watchman’s coat, for fear he should wake the 
patients ! ” 

“ That’s the most extraordinary case I ever heard of,” said Mr. Pickwick, with 
an emphatic blow on the table. 

“ Oh, that’s nothing,” said Jack Hopkins ; “ is it. Bob?” 

“ Certainly not,” replied Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“ Very singular things occur in our profession, I can assure you, sir,” said 
Hopkins. 

“ So I should be disposed to imagine,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

Another knock at the door, announced a large-headed young man in a black 
wig, who brought with him a scorbutic youth in a long stock. The next comei 
was a gentleman in a shirt emblazoned with pink anchors, who was closely 
followed by a pale youth with a plated watch guard. The arrival of a prim 
personage in clean linen and cloth boots rendered the party complete. The little 
table with the green baize cover was wheeled out ; the first instalment of punch 
was brought in, in a white jug ; and the succeeding three hours wel-e devoted to 
vmgt-et-un at sixpence a dozen, which was only once interrupted by a slight dis- 
pute between the scorbutic youth and the gentleman with the pink anchors ; in 
the course of which, the scorbutic youth intimated a burning desire to pull the nose 
of the gentleman with the emblems of hope : in reply to which, that individual 
expressed his decided unwillingness to accept of any “ sauce ” on giatuitous terms, 
either from the irascible young gentleman with the scorbutic countenance, or any 
other person who was ornamented with a head. 

When the last “ natural ” had been declared, and the profit and loss account of 
fish and sixpences adjusted, to the satisfaction of all parties, Mr. Bob Sawyer 
rang for supper, and the visitors squeezed themselves into comers while it was 
getting ready. 

It was not so easily got ready as some people may imagine. First of all, it was 


274 


The Pickwick Cliih. 


necessary to awaken the girl, who had fallen asleep with her face on the kitchen 
table ; this took a little time, and, even when she did answer the bell, anothei 
quarter of an hour was consumed in fruitless endeavours to impart to her a faint and 
distant glimmering of reason. The man to whom the order for the oysters had been 
sent, had not been told to open them ; it is a very difficult thing to open an oyste*" 
with a limp knife or a two-pronged fork ; and very little was done in this way. 
Very little of the beef was done either ; and the ham (which was also from the 
German-sausage shop round the comer) was in a similar predicament. However, 
there was plenty of porter in a tin can ; and the cheese went a gi-eat way, for it 
was very strong. So upon the whole, perhaps, the supper was quite as good as 
such matters usually are. 

After supper, another jug of punch was put upon the table, together w-itb a 
paper of cigars, and a couple of bottles of spirits. Then, there was an aw'tul 
pause ; and this awful pause was occasioned by a very common occmi ence in 
this sori of places, but a very embarrassing one notwithstanding. 

The fact is, the girl was washing the glasses. The establishment boasted four ; 
we do not record the circumstance as at all derogatory to Mrs. Raddle, for there 
never was a lodging-house yet, that was not short of glasses. The landlady’s 
glasses were little thin blown glass tumblers, and those which had been bonowed 
from the public-house were great, dropsical, bloated articles, each supported on a 
huge gouty leg. This would have been in itself sufficient to have possessed the 
company with the real state of affairs ; but the young woman of all work had pre- 
vented the possibility of any misconception arising in the mind of any gentleman 
upon the subject, by forcibly dragging every man’s glass away, long before he had 
finished his beer, and audibly stating, despite the winks and interruptions of 
Mr. Bob Sawj'er, that it was to be conveyed down stairs, and washed forthwith. 

It is a very ill wind that blows nobody any good. The prim man in the cloth 
boots, who had been unsuccessfully attempting to make a joke during the whole 
time the round game lasted, saw his opportunity, and availed himself of it. The 
instant the glasses disappeared, he commenced a long story about a gi-eat public 
character, whose name he had forgotten, making a particularly happy reply to 
another eminent and illustrious individual whom he had never been able to iden- 
tify. He enlarged at some length and with great minuteness upon divem 
collateral circumstances, distantly connected with the anecdote in hand, but for 
the life of him he couldn’t recollect at that precise moment what the anecdote 
was, although he had been in the habit of telling the story with great applause for 
the last ten years. 

^ “ Dear me,” said the prim man in the cloth boots, “ it is a very extraordinaiy 
circumstance.” 

“ I am sorry you have forgotten it,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer, glancing eagerly Hi 
the door, as he thought he heard the noise of glasses jingling ; “ very sorry.” 

“ So am I,” responded the prim man, “ because I know it would have afforded 
so much amusement. Never mind ; I dare say I shall manage to recollect it, in 
the course of half-an-hour or so.” 

The prim man arrived at this point, just as the glasses came back, when 
Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been absorbed in attention during the whole time, said 
he should veiy much like to hear the end of it, for, so far as it went, it was, with- 
out exception, the very best story he had ever heard. 

The sight of the tumblers restored Bob Sawyer to a degree of equanimity which 
he had not possessed since his interview with his landlady. His face brightened 
up, and he began to feel quite convivial. 

“ Now, Betsy,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with great suavity, and dispersing, at 
the same time, the tumultuous little mob of glasses the girl had collected in 


A Personal Misunderstanding, 375 

the centre of the table ; “now, Betsy, the warm water: be brisk, there’s a good 
girl.” 

“You can’t have no warm water,” replied Betsy. 

“No warm water ! ” exclaimed Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“No,” said the girl, with a shake of the head which expressed a more decided 
negative than the most copious language could have conveyed. “ Missis Raddle 
said you wam’t to have none.” 

The surprise depicted on the countenances of his guests imparted new courage 
to the host. 

“ Bring up the warm water instantly — instantly! ” said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with 
desperate sternness. 

“No. I can’t,” replied the girl; “ Missis Raddle raked out the kitchen fire 
afore she went to bed, and locked up the kittle.” 

“ Oh, never mind ; never mind. Pray don’t disturb yourself about such a trifle,” 
said Mr. Pickwick, observing the conflict of Bob Sawyer’s passions, as depicted in 
his countenance, “ cold water will do very well.” 

“ Oh, admiraljly,” said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

* My landlady is subject to some slight attacks of mental derangement,” 
remarked Bob Sawyer with a ghastly smile; “And I fear I must give her 
warning.” 

“No, don’t,” said Ben Allen. 

“ I fear I must,” said Bob with heroic firmness. “ I’ll pay her what I owe her, 
and give her warning to-monow morning.” Poor fellow ! how devoutly he 
wished he could ! 

Mr. Bob Sawyer’s heart-sickening attempts to rally under this last blow, com- 
municated a dispiriting influence to the company, the greater part of whom, with 
the view of raising their spirits, attached themselves with extra cordiality to the 
cold brandy and water, the first perceptible effects of which were displayed in a 
renewal of hostitities between the scorbutic youth and the gentleman in the shirt. 
The belligerents vented their feelings of mutual contempt, for some time, in a 
variety of frownings and snortings, until at last the scorbutic youth felt it necessaiy 
to come to a more explicit understanding on the matter ; when the following clear 
understanding took place. 

“ Sawyer,” said the scorbutic youth, in a loud voice. 

“ Well, Noddy,” replied Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“ I should be ver}'’ sorry, Sawyer,” said Mr. Noddy, “ to create any unpleasant- 
ness at any friend’s table, and much less at yours. Sawyer — very ; but I must take 
this opportunity of informing Mr. Gunter that he is no gentleman.” 

“ And I should be very sorry. Sawyer, to create any disturbance in the street in 
which you reside,” said Mr. Gunter, “ but I’m afraid I shall be under the necessity 
of alarming the neighbouis by thiowing the person who has just spoken, out 0’ 
window.” 

“ What do you mean by that, sir } ” inquired Mr. Noddy. 

“ What I say, sir,” replied Air. Gunter. 

“ I should like to see you do it, sir,” said Mr. Noddy. 

“You shall feel me do it in half a minute, sir,” replied Mr. Gunter. 

“ I request that you’ll favour me with your card, sir,” said Mr. Noddy. 

“ I’ll do nothing of the kind, sir,’ replied Air. Gunter. 

“ Why not, sir.^ ” inquired Mr. Gunter. 

“ Because you’ll stick it up over your chimney-piece, and delude your visitors 
into the false belief tliat a gentleman has been to see you, sir,” replied Mi. 
Gunter. 

“ Sir, a friend of mine shall wait on you in the morning,” said Air. Noddy. 


The Pickwick Club, 


476 

“ Sir, I’m veiy much obliged to you for the caution, and I’ll leave particulai 
directions with the servant to lock up the spoons,” replied Mr. Gunter. 

At this point the remainder of the guests interposed, and remonstrated with 
both parties on the impropriety of their conduct ; on which Mr. Noddy begged to 
state that his father was quite as respectable as Mr. Gunter’s father ; to which Jilr 
Gunter replied that his father was to the full as respectable as Mr. Noddy’s father, 
and that his father’s son was as good a man as Mr. Noddy, any day in the week. 
As this announcement seemed the prelude to a recommencement of the dispute, 
thei'e was another interference on the part of the company ; and a vast quantity of 
talking and clamouring ensued, in the course of which Mr. Noddy gradually 
allowed his feelings to overpower him, and professed that he had ever entertained 
a devoted personal attachment towards Mr. Gunter. To this Mr. Gunter replied 
that, upon the whole, he rather preferred Mr. Noddy to his own brother ; on hear- 
ing which admission, Mr. Noddy magnanimously rose from his seat, and proffered 
his hand to Mr. Gunter. Mr. Gunter grasped it with affecting fervour ; and every- 
body said that the whole dispute had been conducted in a manner which was 
• highly honourable to both parties concerned. 

“Now,” said Jack Hopkins, “just to set ns going again, Bob, I don’t mind 
singing a song.” And Hopkins, incited thereto, by tumultuous applause, 
plunged himself at once into ‘The King, God bless him,’ which he sang as loud 
as he could, to a novel air, compounded of the ‘ Bay of Biscay,’ and ‘ A Frog he 
would.’ The chorus was the essence of the song ; and, as each gentleman sang 
it to the tune he knew best, the effect was very striking indeed. 

It was at the end of the chorus to the first verse, that Mr. Pickwick held up his 
hand in a listening attitude, and said, as soon as silence was restored : 

“Hush! I beg your pardon. I thought I heard somebody calling from up 
stairs.” 

A profound silence immediately ensued ; and Mr. Bob Sawj’er was observed 
to turii pale. 

“ 1 thinlc I hear it now,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Have the goodness to open the 
door.” 

The door was no sooner opened than all doubt on the subject was removed. 

“Mr. Sawyer I Mr. Sawyer ! ” screamed a voice from the two-pair landing. 

“ It’s my landlady,” said Bob Sawyer, looking round him with great dismay. 
“Yes, Mrs. Raddle.” 

“ What do you mean by this, Mr. Sawyer ? ” replied the voice, with great shrill- 
ness and rapidity of utterance. “ Ain’t it enough to be swindled out of one’s 
rent, and money lent out of pocket besides, and abused and insulted by your 
friends that dares to call themselves men : without having the house turned out of 
window, and noise enough made to bring the fire-engines here, at two o’clock in 
the morning } — Turn them wretches away.” 

“You ought to be ashamed of yourselves,” said the voice of Mr. Raddle, which 
appeared to proceed from beneath some distant bed-clothes. 

“ Ashamed of themselves ! ” said Mrs. Raddle. “ Why don’t you go down and 
knock ’em eve^ one down stairs ? You would if you was a man.” 

“I should it I was a dozen men, my dear,” replied Mr. Raddle, pacific illy, 
“ but they’ve the advantage of me in numbers, my dear.” 

“ Ugh, you coward I ” replied Mrs. Raddle, with supreme contempt. “ Do you 
mean to turn them wretches out, or not, Mr. Sawyer } ” 

“They’re going, Mrs. Raddle, they’re going,” said the miserable Bob. “I 
am afraid yeu’d better go,” said Mr. Bob Sawyer to his friends. “ I thought you 
were making too much noise.” 

<‘It’s a very unfortunate thing,” said the prim man. “ Just as we were getting 


Ignominious Retreat. 277 

so comfortable too ! ” The prim man was just beginning to have a dawning recol- 
lection of the story he had forgotten. 

“It’s hardly to be borne,” said the prim man, looking round. ^'Hardly to be 
borne, is it ? ” 

“ Not to be endured,” replied Jack Hopkins ; “ let’s have the other verse. Bob. 
Come, here goes ! ” 

“No, no. Jack, don’t,” interposed Bob Sawyer; “it’s a capital song, but I 
am afraid we had better not have the other verse. They are very violent people, 
the people of the house.” 

“Shall I step up stairs, and pitch into the landlord?” inquired Hopkins, 
“ or keep on ringing the bell, or go and groan on the staircase ? You may com- 
mand me. Bob.” 

“I am ve^ much indebted to you for your friendship and good nature, 
Hopkins,” said the wretched Mr. Bob Sawyer, “ but I think the best plan to 
avoid any further dispute is for us to break up at once.” 

“Now, Mr. Sawyer!” screamed the shrill voice of Mrs. Raddle, “ar^them 
brutes going?” 

“They’re only looking for their hats, Mrs. Raddle,” said Bob; “they are 
going directly.” 

“ Going I ” said Mrs. Raddle, thrusting her night-cap over the banisters just 
as Mr. Pickwick, followed by Mr. Tupman, emerged from the sitting-room. 
“ Going I what did they ever come for ? ” 

“ My dear ma’am,” remonstrated Mr. Pickwick, looking up. 

“ Get along with you, you old wretch ! ” replied Mrs. Raddle, hastily with- 
drawing the night-cap. “ Old enough to be his grandfather, you willin I You’re 
worse than any of ’em.” 

Mr. Pickwick found it in vain to protest his innocence, so hurried down stairs 
into the street, whither he was closely followed by Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and 
Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Ben Allen, who was dismally depressed with spirits and 
agitation, accompanied them as far as London Bridge, and in the course of the 
walk confided to Mr. Winkle, as an especially eligible person to intrust the 
secret to, that he was resolved to cut the throat of any gentleman except Mr. 
Bob Sawyer who should aspire to the affections of his sister Arabella. Having 
expressed his determination to perform this painful duty of a brother with proper 
firmness, he burst into tears, knocked his hat over his eyes, and, making the best 
of his way back, knocked double knocks at the door of the Borough Market office, 
and took short naps on the steps alternately, until daybreak, under the fiim impres- 
sion that he lived there, and had forgotten the key. 

The visitors having all departed, in compliance with the rather pressing request 
of Mrs. Raddle, the lucldess Mr. Bob Sawyer was left alone, to meditate on the 
probable events of to-morrow, and the pleasures of the evening. 


CHAPTER XXXHI. 

MK. WELLER THE ELDER DELIVERS SOME CRITICAL SENTIMENTS RESPECT- 
ING LITERARY COMPOSITION; AND, ASSISTED BY HIS SON SAMUEL, 
PAYS A SMALL INSTALMENT OF RETALIATION TO THE ACCOUNT OF THE 
REVEREND GENTLEMAN WITH THE RED NOSE. 

The morning of the thirteenth of February, which the readers of this authentic 
narrative know, as well as we do, to have been the day immediately preceding 


The Pickwick Clul. 


278 


that which was appointed for the trial of Mrs. Bardell’s action, was a busy time 
for Mr. Samuel Welltr, who was perpetually engaged in travelling from the 
George and Vulture to Mr. Perker’s chambers and back again, from and between 
the hours of nine o’ lock in the morning and two in the aitemoon, both inclusive. 
Not that there was anything whatever to be done, for the consultation had taken 
place, and the course of proceeding to be adopted, had been finally determined 
on ; but Mr. Pickwick being in a m.ost extreme state of excitement, persevered m 
constantly sending small notes to his attorney, merely containing the inquiry, 
“Dear Perker. Is all going on well.?” to which Mr. Perker invariably for- 
warded the reply, “Dear Pickwick. As well as possible the fact being, as we 
have already hinted, that there was nothing whatever to go on, either well or ill, 
until the sitting of the court on the following morning. 

But people who go voluntarily to law, or are taken forcibly there, for the first 
time, may be allowed to labour under some temporary irritation and anxiety ; and 
Sam, with a due allowance for the frailties of human nature, obeyed all his 
master’s behests with that imperturbable good humour and unruffable composure 
which formed one of his most striking and amiable characteristics. 

Sam had solaced himself with a most agreeable little dinner, and was waiting 
at the bar for the glass of warm mixture in which Mr. Pickwdek had requested 
him to drown the fatigues of his morning’s walks, when a young boy of about 
three feet high, or thereabouts, in a hairy cap and fustian over-alls, whose garb 
bespoke a laudable ambition to attain in time the elevation of an hostler, entered 
the passage of the George and Vulture, and looked first up the stairs, and then 
along the passage, and then into the bar, as if in search of somebody to whom 
he bore a commission ; whereupon the barmaid, conceiving it not improbable 
that the said commission might be duected to the tea or table spoons of the 
establishment, accosted the boy with 

“ Now, young man, what do you want } ” 

“ Is there anybody here, named Sam ? ” inquired the youth, in a loud voice of 
treble quality. 

“ What’s the t’other name ? ” said Sam Weller, looking round. 

“How should I know?” briskly replied the young gentleman below the 
hairy cap, 

“ You’re a sharp bo}’-, you are,” said Mr. Weller ; “ only I wouldn’t show that 
\v“ry fine edge too much, if I was you, in case anybody took it off. What do 
you mean by cornin’ to a hot-el, and asking arter Sam, vith as much politeness as 
a vild Indian ? ” 

“ 'Cos an old gen’l’m’n told me to,” replied the boy. 

“What old gen’l’m’n ?” inquired Sam, with deep disdain. 

“Him as drives a Ipswich coach, and uses our parlour,” rejoined the boy. 
“ He told me yesterday momin’ to come to the George and Wultur this arternoon, 
and ask for Sam.” 

“It’s my father, my dear,” said Mr. Weller, turning with an explanatory air 
to the young lady in the bar ; “ blessed if I think he hardly knows wot my other 
name is. Veil, young brockiley sprout, wot then ? ” 

“Why, then,” said the boy, “you was to come to him at six o’clock to our 
ouse, ’cos he wants to see you— Blue Boar, Leaden’all Markit. Shall I say 
you’re cornin’ ? ’• 

“ You may wenture on that ’ere statement, sir,” replied Sam. And thus 
empowered, the young gentleman walked away, awakening all the echoes in 
George Yard as he did so, with several chaste and extremely correct imitations ol 
a d. iNer’s whistle, delivered in a tone of peculiar richness and volume. 

Mr. Weller having obtained leave of absence from Mr. Pickwick, who, in his 


Cupid at the Blue Boar. 


279 


‘hen state of excitement and worry was by no means displeased at being left 
alone, set torth, long before the appointed hour, and having plenty of time at his 
disposal, sauntered down as far as the Mansion House, where he paused and con- 
templated, with a face of great calmness and philosophy, the numerous cads and 
drivers of short stages who assemble near that famous place of resort, to the great 
terror and confusion of the old-lady population of these realms. Having loitered 
here, for half an hour or so. Air. Weller turned, and began wending his way 
towards Leadenhall Market, through a variety of bye streets and courts. As he 
was sauntering away his spare time, and stopped to look at almost every object 
that met his gaze, it is by no means surprising that Air. Weller should have 
paused before a small stationer’s and print-seller’s window ; but without further 
explanation it does appear surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested 
on certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than he gave a sudden 
start, smote his right leg with great vehemence, and exclaimed with energy, “ If 
it hadn’t been for this, I should ha’ forgot all about it, till it was too late ! ” 

The particular picture on which Sam Weller’s eyes were fixed, as he said this, 
was a highly coloured representation of a couple of human hearts skewered toge- 
ther with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a male and female 
cannibal in modern attire : the gentleman being clad in a blue coat and white 
trousers, and the lady in a deep red pelisse with a parasol of the same : were 
approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine gravel path leading there- 
unto. A decidedly indelicate young gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing 
else, was depicted as superintending the cooking ; a representation of the spire of 
the church in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance ; and the whole 
formed a “valentine,” of which, as a written inscription in the window testified, 
there was a large assortment Avithin, which the shopkeeper pledged himself to dis- 
pose of, to his countrymen generally, at the reduced rate of one and sixpence each. 

“ I should ha’ forgot it ; I should certainly ha’ forgot it ! ” said Sam ; so sapng, 
he at once stepped into the stationer’s shop, and requested to be served with a 
sheet of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard-nibbed pen which could be 
warranted not to splutter. These articles having been promptly supplied, he 
walked on direct towards Leadenhall Alarket at a good round pace, very different 
from his recent lingering one. Looking round him, he there beheld a sign-board 
on which the painter’s art had delineated something remotely resembling a ceru- 
lean elephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. Rightly conjecturing that 
this was the Blue Boar himself, he stepped into the house, and inquired concerning 
his parent- 

“ He won’t be here this three quarters of an hour or more,” said the young lady 
who superintended the domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar. 

“ Wery good, my dear,” replied Sam. “ Let me have nine penn’orth o’ brandy 
and water luke, and the inkstand, will you miss } ” 

The brandy and water luke, and the inkstand, having been carried into the little 
parlour, and "the young lady having carefully flattened down the coals to prevent 
their blazing, and carried away the poker to preclude the possibility of the fire 
being stirred, without the full privity and concurrence of the Blue Boar being first 
had and obtained, Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and 
pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the hard-nibbed pen. Then look- 
ing carefully at the pen to see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the 
table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under the paper, Sam tucked 
up the cuffs of his coat, squared his elbows, and composed himself to write. 

To ladies and gentlemen Avho are not in the habit of devoting themselves prac- 
tically to the science of penmanship, writing a letter is no very easy task ; it being 
alw'ays considered necessary in such cases for the Avriter to recline his head on his 


28 o 


The Pickwick Club. 


left arm, so as to place his eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper, 
while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue 
imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although unquestionably of 
the greatest assistance to original composition, retard in some degree the process 
of the writer ; and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing 
words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting 
in new ones which required going over very often to render them visible through 
the old blots, when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entiance oi 
his parent. 

“ Veil, Sammy,” said the father. 

“ Veil, my Prooshan Blue,” responded the son, laying down his pen. “ What’s 
the last bulletin about mother-in-law 

“Mrs. Veller passed a veiy good night, but is uncommon perwerse, and unplea- 
sant this momin’. Signed upon oath, S. Veller,.Esquire, Senior. That’s the last 
vun as was issued, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl. 

“ No better yet } ” inquired Sam. 

“All the symptoms aggerawated,” replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head. 
“But wot’s tiiat, you’re a doin’ of? Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, 
Sammy ? ” 

“ I ’ve done now,” said Sam with slight embarrassment ; “ I ’ve been a writin’.” 

“So I see,” replied Mr. Weller. “Not to any young ’ooman, I hope, 
Sammy ?” 

“ Why it’s no use a sayin’ it ain’t,” replied Sam, “ It’s a walentine.” 

“ A what ! ” exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror-stricken by the word. 

“ A walentine,” replied Sam. 

“ Samivel, Samivel,” said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, “ I didn’t think 
you’d ha’ done it. Arter the warnin’ you’ve had o’ your father’s wicious pro- 
pensities ; arter all I ’ve said to you upon this here wery subject ; arter actiwally 
seein’ and bein’ in the company o’ your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha’ 
thought wos a moral lesson as no man could never ha’ forgotten to his dyin’ day ! 
I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it, Sammy, I didn’t think you’d ha’ done it ! ” 
These reflections were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam’s tumbler 
to his lips and drank off its contents. 

“ Wot’s the matter now ? ” said Sam. 

“ Nev’r mind, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, “ it ’ll be a weiy agonizin’ trial tJ. 
me at my time of life, but I’m pretty tough, that’s vun consolation, as the wei-j 
old turkey remarked wen the farmer said he wos afeerd he should be obliged to 
kill him for the London market.” 

“ Wot’ll be a trial ? ” inquired Sam. 

“To see you married, Sammy— to see you a dilluded wictim, and thinkin’ in 
your innocence that it’s all wery capital,” replied Mr. Weller. “ It’s a dreadful 
trial to a father’s feelin’s, that ’ere, Sammy.” 

“Nonsense,” said Sam. “ I ain’t a goin’ to get married, don’t you fret your- 
self about that ; I know you’re a judge of these things. Order in your pipe, and 
I’ll read )’ou the letter. There ! ” 

W’'e cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect of the pipe, or the conso- 
latory reflection that a fatal disposition to get married ran in the family and 
couldn’t be helpdd, which calmed Mr. Weller’s feelings, and caused his grief to 
subside. We should be rather disposed to say that the result was attained by 
combining the two sources of consolation, for he repeated the second in a low 
tone, very frequently ; ringing the bell meanwhile, to order in the first. He then 
divested himself of his upper coat ; and lighting the pipe and placing himself in 
front of the fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its full heat, 


The Complete Letter Wiiter condensed. 2(f : 

*nd recline against the mantelpiece at the same time, turned towards Sam, and, 
with a countenance greatly mollified by the softening influence of tobacco, re- 
quested him to “ fire away.” 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began with 
a very theatrical air : 

“ ‘ Lovely ” 

“ Stop,” said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. “ A double glass o’ tlie inwariable, 
my dear.” 

“ Very well, sir,” replied the girl ; who with great quickness appeared, vanished, 
returned, and disappeared. 

“ They seem to know your ways here,” observed Sam. 

“ Yes,” replied his father, “ I’ve been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy.” 
‘ Lovely creetur,’ ” repeated Sam. 

“ ’Tain’t in poetry, is it ?” interposed his father. 

“No, no,” replied Sam. 

“ Werry glad to hear it,” said Mr. Weller. “ Poetry’s unnat’ral ; no man ever 
talked poetry ’cept a beadle on boxin’ day, or Warren’s blackin’, or Rowland’s 
oil, or some o’ them low fellows ; never you let yourself down to talk poetry, my 
boy. ^ Begin agin, Sammy.” 

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more com- 
menced, and read as follows. 

“ ‘ Lovely creetur i feel myself a dammed ’ — .” 

“That ain’t proper,” said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth. 

“No; it ain’t ‘dammed ’,” observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, 
“ it’s ‘ shamed,’ there’s a blot there — ‘ I feel myself ashamed.’ ” 

“ Werry good,” said Mr. Weller. “ Go on.” 

“‘Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir — ’ I forget what this here word 
is,” said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember. 

“Why don’t you look at it, then inquired Mr. Weller. 

“ So I am a lookin’ at it,” replied Sam, “ but there’s another blot. Here’s a 
‘ c,’ and a ‘ i,’ and a ‘ d.’ ” 

Circumwented, p’haps,” suggested Mr. Weller. 

“No, it ain’t that,” said Sam, “circumscribed ; that’s it.” 

“ That ain’t as good a word as circumwented, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, 
4,Tavely. 

“ Think not ?” said Sam. 

“ Nothin’ like it,” replied his father. 

“ But don’t you think it means more inquired Sara. 

“ Veil p’raps it is a more tenderer word,” said Mr. Weller, after a few moment?’ 
reflection. “Go on, Sammy.” 

“ ‘ Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin’ of you, foi 
you are a nice gal and nothin’ but it.’ ” 

“ That’s a werry pretty sentiment,” said the elder Mr. Weller, removing hir 
pipe to make way for the remark. 

“ Ye?., I think it is rayther good,” observed Sam, highly flattered. 

“ Wot I like in that ’ere style of writin’,” said the elder Mr. Weller, “is, that 
there ain’t no callin’ names in it, — no Wenuses, nor nothin’ o’ that kind. Wot’s 
the good o’ callin’ a young ’ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy ?” 

“ A.h ! what, indeed ? ” replied Sam. 

“ You might jist as well call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king’s arms at 
once, which is werry well known to be a col-lection o’ fabulous animals,” added 
Weller. 

“Just as well,” replied Sam. 


The Pickwick Club, 


282 


“ Drive on, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. 

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows ; his father co«ivinii- 
ing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was 
particularly edifying. 

“ ‘Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.’ ” 

“ So they are,” obseiwed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically. 

‘“But now,’ continued Sam, ‘now I find what a reg lar soft-headed, ink- 
red’lous turnip I must ha’ been ; for there ain’t nobody like you, though /like you 
better than nothin’ at all.’ I thought it best to make that rayther strong,” said 
Sam, looking up. 

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. 

“ ‘ So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear — as the gen’l’m’n in 
difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, — to tell you that the first and only 
;ime I see you, your likeness was took on my hart in much quicker time and 
brighter colours than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen {wich p’raps 
you may have heerd on Mary my dear) altho it does finish a portrait and put the 
frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in 
two minutes and a quarter.’ ” 

“ I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, dubiously. 

“ No it don’t,” replied Sam, reading on veiy quickly, to avoid contesting the 
point : 

“‘Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and think over what I’ve 
said. — My dear Mary I will now conclude.’ That’s all,” said Sam. 

“ That’s rather a sudden pull up, ain’t it, Sammy } ” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“ Not a bit on it,” said Sam ; “ she’ll vish there wos more, and that’s the great 
art o’ letter wri tin’.” 

“ Well.” said Mr. Weller, “ there’s somethin’ in that ; and I wish your mother- 
in-law ’ud only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain’t 
you a goin’ to sign it 

“ That’s the difficulty,” said Sam ; “ I don’t know what to sign it.” 

“ Sign it, Veller,” said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name. 

“ Won’t do,” said Sam. “ Never sign a walentine with your own name.” * 

“ Sign it ‘ Pickvick,’ then,” said Mr. Weller ; “ it’s a werry good name, and a 
easy one to spell.” 

“ The wery thing,” said Sam. could end with a werse ; what do you think.?” 

“I don’t like it, Sam,” rejoined Mr. Weller. “ I never know’d a respectable 
coachman as wrote poetry, ’cept one, as made an affectin’ copy o’ werses the night 
afore he wos hung for a highway robbery ; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so 
even that’s no rule.” 

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to 
him, so he signed the letter, 

“ Your love-sick 
Pickwick.” 

And having folded in a very intricate manner, squeezed a down-hill direction 
in one comer: “To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins’s Mayor’s, Ipswich, 
Suffolk ; ” and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the General Post. 
This important business having been transacted, Mr. Weller the elder proceeded 
to open that, .m which he had summoned his son. 

“ The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “ He’s 
a goin’ i.t be tried to-monow, ain’t he ?” 

“ The trial’s a cornin’ on,” replied Sam. 

“VeU,” said Mr. Weller, “Now I s’pose he’ll want to call some witnesses to 


Mr. IVeller ihe Elder discloses a Plot. 


28.^ 


•peak to his character, or p’haps to prove a alleybi. I’ve been a turnin’ the 
bis’ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy, Sammy. I’ve got some 
friends as’ll do either for him, but my adwice ’ud be this here — never mind the 
character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.’* 
Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion ; and burying 
his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof, at his astonished son. 

“ Why, what do you mean ? ” said Sam ; “ you don’t think he’s a goin’ to be 
tried at the Old Bailey, do you 

“ That ain’t no part of the present con-sideration, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller. 
“ Verever he’s a goin’ to be tried, my boy, a alleybi’s the thing to get him off. Ve 
got Tom Vildspark off that ’ere manslaughter, with a alleybi, ven all the big vigs 
to a man said as notliing couldn’t save him. And my ’pinion is, Sammy, that if 
your governor don’t prove a alleybi, he’ll be what the Italians call reg’larly 
flummoxed, and that’s all about it.” 

As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a fiim and unalterable conviction that the 
Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this countiy^, and that its rules 
and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled the practice of all other courts 
of justic? whatsoever, he totally disiegarded the assurances and arguments of his 
son, tending to show that the alibi was inadmissible ; and vehemently protested 
that Mr. Pickwick was being “ wictimised.” Finding that it was of no use to 
discuss the matter further, Sam changed the subject, and inquired what the second 
topic was, on which his revered parent wished to consult him. 

“That’s a pint o’ domestic policy, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “This here 
Stiggins — ” 

“ Red-nosed man ?” inquired Sam. 

“ The wery same,” replied Mr. Weller. “This here red-nosed man, Sammy, 
wisits your mother-in-law vith a kindness and constancy as I never see equalled. 
He’s sitch a friend o’ the family, Sammy, that wen he’s avay from us, he can’t be 
comfortable unless he has somethin’ to remember us by.” 

“ And I’d give him somethin’ as ’ud turpentine and bees’-vax his memory for 
the next ten years or so, if I wos you,” interposed Sam. 

“ Stop a minute,” said Mr. Weller ; “ I wos a going to say, he always brings 
now, a flat bottle as holds about a pint and a-half, and fills it vith the pine-apple 
rum afore he goes avay.” 

“ And empties it afore he comes back, I s’pose ?” said Sam. 

“ Clean ! ” replied Mr. Weller ; “ never leaves nothin’ in it but the cork and the 
smell ; trust him for that, Sammy. Now, these here fellows, my boy, are a goin’ 
to-night to get up the monthly meetin’ o’ the Brick Lane Branch o’ the United 
Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association. Your mother-in-law ?e/os a 
goin’, Sammy, but she’s got the rheumatics, and can’t ; and I, Sammy — I’ve got 
the two tickets as wos sent her.” Mr. Weller communicated this secret with gieat 
glee, and winked so indefatigably after doing so, that Sam began to think he must 
have got the tic doloureux in his right eye-lid. 

“ Well ?” said that young gentleman. 

“Well,” continued his progenitor, looking round him veiy cautiously, “you 
and I’ll go, punctiwal to the time. The deputy shepherd won’t, Sammy ; the 
deputy shepherd won’t.” Here Mr. Weller was seized with a paroxysm of 
chuckles, which gradually terminated in as near an approach to a choke as an 
elderly gentleman can, -with safety, sustain. 

“ Well, I never see sitch an old ghost in all my bom days,” exclaimed Sam, 
rubbing tbe old gentleman’s back, hard enough to set him on fire with the friction. 
“ What are you a laughin’ at, corpilence ?” 

“ Hush ! Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, looking round him with increased caution. 


284 


The Pickwick Club. 


and speaking in a whisper: “Two friends o’ mine, as works the Oxford Roa4 
and is up to all kinds o’ games, has got the deputy shepherd safe in tow, Sammy ; 
and ven he does come to the Ebenezer Junction, (vich he’s sure to do : for they’ll 
see him to the door, and shove him in if necessary) he’ll be as far gone in rum and 
water, as ever he wos at the Markis o’ Granby, Dorkin’, and that’s not sayin’ a 
little neither.” And with this, Mr. Weller once more laughed immoderately, and 
once more relapsed info a state of partial suffocation, in consequence. 

Nothing could have (been more in accordance wnth Sam Weller’s feelings, than 
ihe projected exposure of the real propensities and qualities of the red-nosed man ; 
and it being very near the appointed hour of meeting, the father and son took 
their way at once to Brick Lane : Sam not forgetting to drop his letter into a 
general post-office as they walked along. 

The monthly meetings of the Brick Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction 
Ebenezer Temperance Association, were held in a large room, pleasantly and 
airily situated at the top of a safe and commodious ladder. The president was 
the straight-walking Mr. Anthony Humm, a converted fireman, now a schoolmas- 
ter, and occasionally an itinerant preacher ; and the secretaiy was Mr. Jonas 
Mudge, chandler’s shop-keeper, an enthusiastic and disinterested vessel, who sold 
tea to the members. Previous to the commencement of business, the ladies sat 
upon foims, and drank tea, till such time as they considered it expedient to leave 
off ; and a large wooden money-box was conspicuously placed upon the greer 
baize cloth of the business table, behind which the secretary stood, and acknow- 
ledged, with a gracious smile, every addition to the rich vein of copper which laj 
concealed within. 

On this particular occasion the women drank tea to a most alaiming extent ; 
greatly to the horror of Mr. Weller senior, who, utterly regardless of all Sam’s 
admonitoiy nudgings, stared about him in every direction with the most undisguised 
astonishment. 

“ Sammy,” whispered Mr. Weller, “if some o’ these here people don’t want 
tappin’ to-moiTOw momin’, I ain’t your father, and that’s wot it is. Why, this 
here old lady next me is a drowmdin’ herself in tea.” 

“ Be quiet, can’t you muimured Sam. 

“ Sam,” whispered Mr. Weller, a moment afterwards, in a tone of deep agita- 
tion, “ mark my vords, my boy. If that ’ere secretary fellow keeps on for only five 
minutes more, he’ll blow hisself up with toast and water.” 

“ Well, let him, if he likes,” replied Sam ; “ it ain’t no bis’ness o’ youm.” 

“ If this here lasts much longer, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, in the same low 
voice, “ I shall feel it my duty, as a human bein’, to rise and address the cheer. 
Ihere’s a young ’ooman on the next form but two, as has drunk nine breakfast 
cups and a half ; and she’s a swellin’ wisibly before my wery eyes.” 

There is little doubt that Mr. Weller would have carried his benevolent intention 
into immediate execution, if a great noise, occasioned by putting up the cups and 
saucers, had not very fortunately announced that the tea-chinking was over. The 
crockery having been removed, the table with the green baize cover was carried 
out into the centre of the room, and the business of the evening was commenced 
by a little emphatic man, with a bald head, and drab shorts, who suddenly rushed 
up the ladder, at the imminent peril of snapping the two little legs encased in the 
drab shorts, and said : 

“ Ladies and gentlemen, I move our excellent brother, Mr. Anthony Humm, 
into the chair.” 

The ladies waved a choice collection of pocket handkerchiefs at this proposition ; 
and the impetuous little man literally moved Mr. Humm into the chair, by taking 
him by the shoulders and thrusting him into a mahogany- frame which had oncd 


Committee s Report. 


ref)resented that article of furniture. The waving of handkerchiefs was renewed ; 
and Mr. Humm, who was a sleek, white-faced man, in a perpetual perspiration, 
bowed meekly, to the great admiration of the females, and formally took his seat. 
Silence was then proclaimed by the little man in the drab shorts, and Mr. Humm 
rose and said — That, with the permission of his Brick Lane Branch brothers and 
sisters, then and there present, the secretary would read the report of the Brick 
Lane Branch committee ; a proposition which was again received with a demons tra- 
tion of pocket-handkerchiefs. 

The secretaiy having sneezed in a very impressive manner, and the cough which 
always seizes an assembly, when anything particular is going to be done, having 
been duly performed, the following document was read : 

“ REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE OF THE BRICK LANE BRANCH OF THE UNITED 
GRAND JUNCTION EBENEZER TEMPERANCE ASSOCIATION. 

“ Your committee have pursued their grateful labours during the past month, 
and have the unspeakable pleasure of reporting the following additional cases of 
converts to Temperance. 

“ H. Walker, tailor, wife, and two children. When in better circumstances, 
owns to having been in the constant habit of drinking ale and beer ; says he is 
not certain whether he did not twice a week, for twenty years, taste ‘ dog’s arose,’ 
which your committee find upon inquiry, to be compounded of warm porter, moist 
sugar, gin, and nutmeg (a groan, and ‘ So it is ! ’ from an elderly female.) Is 
now out of work and pennyless ; thinks it must be the porter (cheers) or the loss 
of the use of his right hand ; is not certain which, but thinks it very likely that, 
if he had drank nothing but water all his life, his fellow work-man would never 
have stuck a rusty needle in him, and thereby occasioned his accident (tremen- 
dous cheering). Has nothing but cold water to drink, and never feels thirsty (great 
applause). 

“ Betsy Martin, widow, one child, and one eye. Goes out charing and washing, 
by the day ; never had more than one eye, but knows her mother drank bottled 
stout, and shouldn’t wonder if that caused it (immense cheering). Thinks it 
not impossible that if she had always abstained from spirits, she might have 
had two eyes by this time (tremendous applause). Used, at every place she 
went to, to have eighteen pence a day, a pint of porter, and a glass of spirits ; 
but since she became a member of the Brick Lane Branch, has always demanded 
three and sixpence instead (the announcement of this most interesting fact was 
received with deafening enthusiasm). 

“ Hemy Beller was for many years toast-master at various corporation dinners, 
during which time he drank a great deal of foreign wine ; may sometimes have 
canied a bottle or two home with him ; is not quite certain of that, but is sure 
if he did, that he drank the contents. Feels veiy low and melancholy, is very 
feverish, and has a constant thirst upon him ; thinks it must be the wine he used 
to drink (cheers). Is out of employ now : and never touches a drop of foreign 
wine by any chance (tremendous plaudits). 

“ Thomas Burton is purveyor of cat’s meat to the Lord Mayor and Sheriffs, 
and several members ol the Common Council (the announcement of this gentle- 
man’s name w^as received with breathless interest). Has a wooden leg ; finds a 
wooden leg expensive, going over the stones ; used to wear second-hand wooden 
legs, and drink a glass of hot gin and water regularly eveiy night — sometimes 
two (deep sighs). Found the second-hand wooden legs split and rot very quickly; 
is fii-ral) persuaded that their constitution was undermined by the gin and water 
(prolonged cheering). Buys new wooden legs now, and drinks nothing but 


t86 


The Pickwick Club. 


water and weak tea. The new legs last twice as long as the others used to do, 
and he attributes this solely to his temperate habits (triumphant cheers).” 

Anthony Humni now moved that the assembly do legale itself with a song 
With a view to their rational and moral enjoyment, brother Mordlin had adap- 
ted the beautiful words of “ Who hasn’t heard of a Jolly Young Waterman ? ” to 
the tune of the Old Hundredth, which he would request them to join him in 
singing (great applause). He might take that opportunity of expressing his firm 
persuasion that the late Mr. Dibdin, seeing the errors of his former life, had 
written that song to show the advantages of abstinence. It was a temperance 
song (whirlwinds of cheers). The neatness of the young man’s attire, the dex- 
teiity of his feathering, the enviable state of mind which enabled him in the 
beautiful words of the poet, to 

“ Row along, thinking of nothing at all,^ 

aU combined to prove that he must have been a water-drinker (cheers). Oh, 
what a state of virtuous jollity.? (rapturous cheering.) And what was the 
young man’s reward .? Let all young men present mark this ; 

“The maidens all flock’d to his b*at so readily.” 

(Loud cheers, in which the ladies joined.) What a bright example ! The sister- 
hood, the maidens, flocking round the young waterman, and urging him along 
the stream of duty and of temperance. But, was it the maidens of humble life 
only, who soothed, consoled, and supported him } No ! 

“ He was always first oars with the fine cily ladies.’’ 

(immense cheering.) The soft sex to a man — he begged pardon, to a female — 
rallied rrmnd the young waterman, and turned with disgust from the diinker of 
spirits (cheers). The Brick Lane Branch brothers were watermen (cheers and 
laughter). That room was their boat ; that audience were the maidens ; and he (Mr. 
Anthony Humm), how'ever unworthily, was “first oars ” (unbounded applause). 

“Wot does he mean by the soft sex, Sammy .?” inquired Mr. Weller, in a 
whisper. 

“ The w'omin,” said Sam, in the same tone. 

“ He ain’t far out there, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller ; “ they must be a soft 
sex, — a wery soft sex, indeed — if they let themselves be gammoned by such fellers 
as him.” 

Any further obseiwations from the indignant old gentleman were cut short by 
the announcement of the song, which Mr. Anthony Humm gave out, two lines • 
at a time, for the infoimation of such of his hearers as were unacquainted \vith 
the legend. While it was being sung, the little man with the drab shorts dis- 
appeared ; he returned immediately on its conclusion, and whispered Mr. Anthony 
Humm, with a face of the deepest importance. 

“ My friends,” said Mr. Humm, holding up his hand in a deprecator}'^ manner, to 
bespeak the silence of such of the stout old ladies as were yet a line or two 
behind ; “ my friends, a delegate from the Dorking branch of om- society, Biother 
Stiggins, attends below.” 

Out came the pocket-handkerchiefs again, in greater force than ever ; for Mr. 
Stiggins was excessively popular among the female constituency of Brick Lane. 

“ He may approach, I think,” said Mr. Humm, looking round him, with a 
fat smile. “ Brother Tadger, let him come forth and greet us.” 

The little man in the drab shorts who answered to the name of Brother Tadger, 
bustled down the ladder with great speed, and was immediately afterwards heard 
tumbling up with the reverend Mr. Stiggins. 

“He’s a cornin’, Sammy,” whispered Mr. Weller, purple in the countenance 
with siippiessed laughter. 


Mr. Stigjins is All Right 287 

“ Don t say nothin’ to me,” replied Sam, “ for I can’t bear it. He’s close to 
tile door. I heard him a-knockin’ his head again the lath and plaster now.” 

As Sam Weller spoke, the little door flew open, and brother Tadger appeared, 
closely followed by the reverend Mr. Stig^ns, who no sooner entered, than theie 
was a great clapping of hands, and stamping of feet, and flourishing of handkei- 
chiefs ; to all of which manifestations of delight. Brother Stiggins returned no 
other acknowledgment than staring with a wild eye, and a fixed smile, at the 
extreme top of the wick of the candle on the table : swaying his body to and fro, 
meanwhile, in a very unsteady and uncertain manner. 

“ Are you unwell, brother Stiggins } ” whispered Mr. Anthony Humm. 

“I am all right, sir,” replied Mr. Stiggins, in a tone in which ferocity ■was 
blended with an extreme thickness of utterance ; “I am all right, sir.” 

“ Oh, very well,” rejoined Mr. Anthony Humm, retreating a few paces. 

“ I believe no man here, has ventured to say that I am not all right, sir ? ” said 
Mr. Stiggins. 

“ Oh, certainly not,” said Mr. Humm. 

“ I should advise him not to, sir ; I should advise him not,” said Mr. Stiggins. 

By this time the audience were perfectly silent, and waited with some anxiety for 
tlie resumption of business. 

“Will you addiess the meeting brother ? ” said Mr. Humm, with a smile of 
invitation. 

“ No, sir,” rejoined Mr. Stiggins ; “ No, sir. I will not, sir.” 

The meeting looked at each other with raised eye-lids ; and a murmur of 
astonishment ran through the room. 

“It’s my opinion, sir,” said Mr. Stiggins, unbuttoning his coat, and speaking 
very loudly; '■‘it’s my opinion, sir, that this meeting is drunk, sir. Brother 
Tadger, sir ! ” said Mr. Stiggins, suddenly increasing in ferocity, and turning 
sharp round on the little man in the drab shorts, are drunk, sir ! ” With 

this, Mr. Stiggins, entertaining a praiseworthy desire to promote the sobriety of 
the meeting, and to exclude therefrom all improper characters, hit brother Tadger 
on the summit of the nose with such unerring aim, that the drab shorts dis- 
appeared like a flash of lightning. Brother Tadger had been knocked, head first, 
down the ladder. 

Upon this, the women set up a loud and dismal screaming; and rushing in 
small parties before their favourite brothers, flung their arms around them to 
preserve them from danger. An instance of affection, which had nearly proved 
fatal to Humm, who, being extremely popular, was all but suffocated, by the 
crowd of female devotees that hung about his neck, and heaped caresses upon 
him. The greater part of the lights were quickly put out, and nothing but noise 
and confusion resounded on all sides. 

“ Now Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, taking off his great coat -with much delibera- 
tion, “just you step out, and fetch in a watchman.” 

“ And wot are you a goin’ to do, the while ?” inquired Sam. 

“ Never you mind me, Sammy,” replied the old gentleman ; “ I shall ockipy 
myself in havin’ a small settlement with that ’ere Stiggins.” Before Sam could 
interfere to prevent it, his heroic parent had penetrated into a remote coiner cf 
the room, and attacked the reverend Mr. Stiggins with manual dexterity. 

“ Come off ! ” said Sam. 

“Come on!” cried Mr. Weller; and without further invitation he gave the 
reverend Mr. Stiggins a preliminaiy tap on the head, and 1 egan dancing round 
him in a buoyant and cork-like manner, which in a gentleman at his time of life 
was a perfect marvel to behold. 

Finding all remonstrance unavailing, Sam pulled his hat firmly on, threw his 


a88 


The Pickwick Club. 


father’s coat over his arm, and taking the old man round the waist, forcibly 
dragged him down the ladder, and into the street ; never releasing his hold, or 
permitting him to stop, until they reached the corner. As they gained it, they 
could hear the shouts of the populace, who were witnessing the removal of the 
reverend Mr. Stiggins to strong lodgings for the night : and could hear the noise 
occasioned by the dispersion in various directions of the members of the Brick 
Lane Branch of the United Grand Junction Ebenezer Temperance Association. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

IS WHOLLY DEVOTED TO A FULL AND FAITHFUL REPORT OF THE RLEMORABLE 
TRIAL OF BARDELL AGAINST PICKWICK. 

“ I WONDER what the foreman of the jury, whoever he’ll be, has got for break- 
fast,” said Mr. Snodgrass, by way of keeping up a conversation on the eventful 
morning of the fourteenth of February. 

“ Ah !” said Perker, “ I hope he’s got a good one.” 

“ Why so inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Highly important ; very important, my dear sir,” replied Perker. “ A good, 
contented, well-breakfasted juryman, is a capital thing to get hold of. Dis- 
contented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the plaintiff.” 

“ Bless my heart,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking very blanlc ; “ what do they do 
that for ?” 

“ Why, I don’t know,” replied the little man, coolly; “ saves time, I suppose. 
If it’s near dinner-time, the foreman takes out his watch when the jury has 
retired, and says, ‘ Dear me, gentlemen, ten minutes to five, I declare ! I dine at 
five, gentlemen.’ ‘ So do I,’ says every body else, except two men who ought te 
have dined at three, and seem more than half disposed to stand out in conse- 
quence. The foreman smiles, and puts up his watch : — ‘Well, gentlemen, what 
do we say, plaintiff' or defendant, gentlemen } I rather think, so far as I am 
concerned, gentlemen, — I say, I rather think, — but don’t let that influence you — - 
I rather the plaintiff’s the man.’ Upon this, two or three other men are 
sure to say that they think so too — as of course they do ; and then they get on 
veiy unanimously and comfortably. Ten minutes past nine ! ” said the little man, 
looking at his watch. “ Time we were off, my dear sir ; breach of promise trial 
— court is generally full in such cases. You had better ring for a coach, my deal 
sir, or we shall be rather late.” 

Mr. Pickwick immediately rang the bell ; and a coach having been procured, 
the four Pickwickians and Mr. Perker ensconced themselves therein, and drove to 
Guildhall; Sam Weller, Mr. Lowten, and the blue bag, following in a cab. 

“ Lowten,” said Perker, when they reached the outer hall of the court, “ put 
Mr. Pickwick’s friends in the students’ box ; Mr. Pickwick himself had better sit 
by me. This way, my dear sir, this way.” Taking Mr. Pickwick by the coat- 
sleeve, the little man led him to the low seat just beneath the desks of the King’s 
Counsel, which is constructed for the convenience of attorneys, who from that 
spot can whisper into the ear of the leading counsel in the case, any instructions 
that may be necessary during the progress of the trial. The occupants of this 
seat are invisible to the great body of spectators, inasmuch as they sit on a much 
lower level than either the barristers or the audience, whose seats are raised above 
the floor. Of course they have their backs to both, and their faces towards the 
judge. 


In Court. 289 

“ That’s the witness-box, I suppose ?” said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a kind 
of pulpit, with a brass rail, on his left hand. 

“ That’s the witness-box, my dear sir,” replied Perker, disinterring a quantity 
of papers from the blue bag, which Lowten had just deposited at his feet. 

“And that,” said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a couple of enclosed seats on his 
right, “ that’s where the jurymen sit, is it not ?” 

“ The identical place, my dear sir,” replied Perker, tapping the lid of his snuff- 
box. 

Mr. Pickwick stood up in a state of great agitation, and took a glance at the 
court. There were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators in the gallery, 
and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs, in the barristers’ seats : who pre- 
sented, as a body, all that pleasing and extensive variety of nose and whisker for 
which the bar of England is so justly celebrated. Such of the gentlemen as had 
a brief to carry, carried it in as conspicuous a manner as possible, and occasion- 
ally scratched their noses therewith, to impress the fact more strongly on the 
observation of the spectators. Other gentlemen, who had no briefs to show, 
carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind, and that under- 
done-pie-crust-coloured cover, which is technically known as “ law calf.” Others, 
who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their hands into their pockets, and 
looked as wise as they conveniently could ; others, again, moved here and there 
with great restlessness and earnestness of manner, content to awaken thereby the 
admiration and astonishment of the uninitiated strangers. The whole, to the 
great wonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were divided into little groups, who were 
chatting and discussing the news of the day in the most unfeeling manner possible, 
— just as if no trial at all were coming on. 

A bow from Mr. Phunky, as he entered, and took his seat behind the row 
appropriated to the King’s Counsel, attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention ; and he 
had scarcely returned it, when Mr. Serjeant Snubbin appeared, followed by 
Mr. Mallard, who half hid the Serjeant behind a large crimson bag, which he 
placed on his table, and, after shaking hands with Perker, withdrew. Then there 
entered two or three more Serjeants ; and among them, one with a fat body and a 
red face, who nodded in a friendly manner to Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, and said it 
was a fine morning. 

“ Who’s that red-faced man, who said it was a fine morning, and nodded to our 
counsel ? ” whispered Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz,” replied Perker. “ He’s opposed to us ; he leads on the 
other side. That gentleman behind him is Mr. Skimpin, his junior.” 

Mr. Pickwick was on the point of inquiring, with great abhorrence of the man’s 
cold-blooded villany, how Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, who was counsel for the opposite 
party, dared to presume to tell Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who was counsel for him, 
that it was a fine morning, when he was interrupted by a general rising of the 
banisters, and a loud cry of “ Silence ! ” from the officers of the court. Looking 
round, he found that this was caused by the entrance of the judge. 

Mr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the absence of the Chief Justice, occasioned 
by indisposition,) was a most particularly short man, and so fat, that he seemed all 
face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon two little turned legs, and having bobbed 
gravely to the bar, who bobbed gravely to him, put his little legs underneath his 
table, and his little three-cornered hat upon it ; and when Mr. Justice Stareleigh 
had done this, all you could see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad pink 
face, and somewhere about half of a big and very comical-looking wig. 

The judge had no sooner taken his seat, than the officer on the floor of the court 
called out “ Silence ! ” in a commanding tone, upon which another officer in the 
gallery’ cried “ Silence ! ” in an angry manner, whereupon three or four more- 

TI 


290 


The Pickwick Club, 


ushers shouted “ Silence ! ” in a voice of indicant remonstrance. This being 
done, a gentleman in black, who sat below the judge, proceeded to call over the 
names of the juiy ; and after a great deal of bawling, it was discovered that only 
ten special jurymen were present. Upon this, Mr. Sergeant Buzfuz prayed a 
tales ; the gentleman in black then proceeded to press into the special jury, two 
of the common juiymen ; and a gieen-grocer and a chemist were caught directly. 

“Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may be sworn,” sai i the gentle- 
man in black. “ Richard Upwitch.” 

“ Here,” said the green-grocer. 

“ Thomas Groffin.” 

“ Here,” said the chemist. 

“ Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and truly try — ” 

“ I beg this court’s pardon,” said the chemist, who was a tall, thin, yellow* 
visaged man, “ but I hope this court will excuse my attendance.” 

“ On what grounds, sir } ” said Mr. Justice Stareleigh. 

“ I have no assistant, my Lord,” said the chemist. 

“ I can’t help that, sir,” replied Mr. Justice Stareleigh. “ You should hire one.” 

“I can’t afford it, my Lord,” rejoined the chemist. 

“Then you ought to be able to afford it, sir,” said the judge, reddening; for 
Mr. Justice Stareleigh’s temper bordered on the irritable, and brooked not contra- 
diction. 

“ I know I ought to do, if I got on as well as I deserved, but I don’t, my Lord,” 
answered the chemist. 

“ Swear the gentleman,” said the judge, peremptorily. 

The officer had got no finther than the “You shall weU and truly try,” when he 
was again interrupted by the chemist. 

“ I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I } ” said the chemist. 

“ Certainly, sir,” replied the testy little judge. 

“ Veiy well, my Lord,” replied the chemist, in a resigned manner. “Then 
there’ll be murder before this trial’s over; that’s all. Swear me, if you please, 
sir ;” and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find words to utter. 

“ I merely wanted to obseiwe, my Lord,” said the chemist, taking his seat with 
great deliberation, “ that I’ve left nobody but an errand-boy in my shop. He is a 
very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not acquainted with drugs ; and I know that the 
prevailing impression on his mind is, that Epsom salts means oxalic a?cid ; and 
syrup of senna, laudanum. That’s all, my Lord.” With this, the tall chemist 
composed himself into a comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant expression 
of countenance, appeared to have prepared himself for the worst. 

Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepest horror, 
when a slight sensation was perceptible in the body of the court ; and immediately 
afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by Mrs. Cluppins, was led in, and placed, in 
a drooping state, at the other end of the seat on which Mr. Pickwick sat. An 
extra sized umbrella was then handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by 
Mr. Fogg, each of whom had prepared a most sympathising and melancholy face 
for the occasion. Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master Bardell. At 
sight of her child, Mrs. Bardell started ; suddenly recollecting herself, she kissed 
him in a frantic manner ; then relapsing into a state of hysterical imbecility, the 
good lady requested to be informed where she was. In reply to this, Mrs. Cluppins 
and Mrs. Sanders turned their heads away and wept, while Messrs. Dodson and 
Fogg intreated the plaintiff to compose herself. Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his eyes 
very hard with a large white handkerchief, and gave an appealing look towards the 
jury while the judge was visibly affected, and several of the beholders tried to 
cough down their emotions. 


291 


The Case for the Plaintiff opened. 


“ Very good notion that, indeed,” whispered Perker to Mr. PickM’ick. “ Capital 
fellows those Dodson and Fogg ; excellent ideas of effect, my dear sir, excellent.” 

As Perker spoke, Mrs. Bardell began to recover by slow degrees, while Mrs. 
Cluppins, after a careful survey of Master Bardell’s buttons and the button-holes 
to which they severally belonged, placed him on the floor of the court in front of 
his mother, — a commanding position in which he could not fail to awaken the full 
commiseration and sympathy of both judge and jury. This was not done without 
considerable opposition, and many tears, on the part of the young gentleman him- 
self, who had certain inward misgivings that the placing him within the full glare 
of the judge’s eye was only a formal prelude to his being immediately ordered 
away for instant execution, or for transportation beyond the seas, during the whole 
term of his natural life, at the very least. 

“ Bardell and Pickwick,” cried the gentleman in black, calling on the case, 
which stood first on the list. 

“ I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,” said Mr. Seijeant Buzfuz. 

“ Who is with you, brother Buzfuz ? ” said the judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed, to 
intimate that he was. 

“ I appear for the defendant, my Lord,” said Mr. Seijeant Snubbin. 

“Anybody with you, brother Snubbin inquired the court. 

“ Mr. Phunky, my Lord,” replied Serjeant Snubbin. 

“ Seijeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plaintiff,” said the judge, writing 
down the names in his note-book, and reading as he wrote ; “ for the defendant, 
Seijeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey.” 

“ Beg your Lordship’s pardon, Phunky.” 

“ Oh, veiy good,” said the judge; “ I never had the pleasure of hearing the 
gentleman’s name before.” Here Mr. Phunlcy bowed and smiled, and the judge 
bowed and smiled too, and then Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his 
eyes, tried to look as if he didn’t know that everybody was gazing at him : a thing 
which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable probability, ever will. 

“ Go on,” said the judge. 

The ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to “ open the 
case and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he had opened it, 
for he kept such particulars as he knew, completely to himself, and sat down, after 
a lapse of three minutes, learing the jury in precisely the same advanced stage of 
wisdom as they were in before. 

Seijeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave 
nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to Dodson, and con- 
ferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and 
addressed the jury. 

Seijeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in the whole course of his profes- 
sional experience — never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the 
study and practice of the law — had he approached a case with feelings of such 
deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed upon him 
—-a responsibility, he would say, which he could never have supported, were he 
not buoved up and sustained by a conviction so strong, that it amounted to positive 
certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his 
much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high-minded and 
intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him. 

Counsel usually begin in this way, because it puts the juiy on the very best 
terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be. 
A visible effect was produced immediately; several jurymen beginning to take 
voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness. 

You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen,” continued Seijeant Bux* 


293 


The Pichwick Club. 


fu?, well knowing that, from the leamerl friend alluded to, the gent)<*nicn 
of the juiy had heard just nothing at all — you have heard from my learned 
friend, gentlemen, that this is an action foi' a breach of promise of mairiage, in 
which the damages are laid at ^1,500. But you have not heard from my learned 
friend, inasmuch as it did not come within my learned friend’s province to tell 
you, what are the facts and circumstances of the case. Those facts and circum- 
stances, gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeach- 
able female whom I will place in that box before you.” 

Here Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous emphasis on the word “box,” 
smote his table with a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg, who 
nodded admiration of the serjeant, and indignant defiance of the defendant. 

“ The plaintiff, gentlemen,” continued Seijeant Buzfuz, in a soft and melancholy 
voice, “ the plaintiff is a widow ; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The late Mr. Bardell, 
after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one 
of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world, 
to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.” 

At this pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been knocked 
on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar, the learned serjeant’s voice 
faltered, and he proceeded with emotion : 

“Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. 
With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell 
shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell 
Street ; and here she placed in her front parlour- window a written placard, bearing 
this inscription — ‘ Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.’” 
Here Serjeant Buzfuz paused, while several gentlemen of the juiy took a note of 
the document. 

“ There is no date to that, is there, sir ?” inquired a juror. 

“ There is no date, gentlemen,” replied Serjeant Buzfuz ; “ but I am instructed 
to say that it was put in the plaintiff ’s parlour-window just this time three years. 
I intreat the attention of the juiy to the wording of this document. ‘ Apartments 
furnished for a single gentleman’ ! Mrs. Bardell’s opinions of the opposite sex, 
gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of 
her lost husband. She had no fear, she had no distrust, she had no suspicion, 
all was confidence and reliance. ‘Mr. Bardell,’ said the widow; ‘Mr. Bardell 
was a man of honour, Mr. Bardell was a man of his word, Mr. Bardell was no 
deceiver, Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself ; to single gentlemen 
1 look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and foi' consolation ; m single 
gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell 
was, when he first won my young and untried affections ; to a single gentleman, 
then, shall my lodgings be let.’ Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse 
(among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen,) the lonely and de- 
solate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught the innocent boy to 
her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour- window. Did it remain 
there long ? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine 
was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in 
the parlour-window three days — three days — gentlemen — a Being, erect upon two 
legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, 
knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell’s house. He inquired within ; he took the 
lodgings ; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man 
was Pickwick — Pickwick, the defendant.” 

Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face was per- 
fectly crimson, here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice Staieleigh, 
who immediately wrote down something with a pen without any ink in it, and 


Mr Sergeant Buzfuz continues. 29 J 

looked unusually profound, to impress the jury with the belief that he always 
thoug^ht most deeply with his eyes shut. Serjeant Buzfuz proceeded. 

“ Of this man Pickwick I will say little ; the subject presents but few attractions ; 
and I, ^mtlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in 
the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villany.” 

Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave a 
violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Seijeant Buzfuz, in the august 
presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory gesture 
from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman’s continuation 
with a look of indignation, which contrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of 
Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders. 

“I say systematic villany, gentlemen,” said Seijeant Buzfuz, looking through 
Mr. Pickwick, and talking at him ; “ and when I say systematic villany, let me 
tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would 
have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better 
taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any geitures of 
dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down 
with you ; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them ; and let 
me tell him further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, tnat a counsel, in the dis- 
charge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated nor bullied, nor put 
down ; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first, or the 
last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be 
his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.” 

This little divergence from the subject in hand, had of course, the intended effect 
of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Sergeant Buzfuz, having partially recovered 
from the state of moral elevation into which he had lashed himself, resumed : 

“I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside 
constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell’s house. 1 
shall show you that Mrs. Bardell, during the whole of that time, waited on him, 
attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washer- 
woman when it went abroad, darned, aired, and prepared it for wear, when it 
came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest tiaist and confidence. I shall show 
you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even 
sixpences, to her little boy ; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony 
it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one 
occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won 
any alley tors or commoneys lately (both of which I understand to be a particular 
species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use of this 
remaikable expression: ‘ How should you like to have another father I shall 
prove to you, gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to 
absent himself from home, during long inteivals, as if with the intention of ^ a- 
duallj breaking off from my client ; but I shall show you also, that his resolution 
was no. at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better feelings conquered, if 
better feelings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments of my client pre- 
vailed against his unmanly intentions ; by proving to you, that on one occasion, 
when he returned from the countij, he distinctly and in terms, offered her mamage : 
previously however, taking special care that there should be no witness to their 
solemn contract ; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on the testimony of 
three of his own friends, — most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen — most unwilling 
witnesses — that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff 
in his arms, and soothing her agitatic n by his caresses and endearments.” 

A visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of the learned 
scijcaut’s address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of paper Jie proceeded ; 


294 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed betweec 
these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the hand-writing of the defend- 
ant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character 
of the man. They are not open, feiwent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but 
the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded com- 
munications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most 
glowing language and the most poetic imagery — letters that must be viewed with 
a cautious and suspicious eye — letters that were evidently intended at the time, 
by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might 
fall. Let me read the first : — ‘ Gaira way’s, twelve o’clock. Dear Mrs. B. — Chops 
and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick.’ Gentlemen, what does this mean ? 
Chops and Tomata sauce. Yours, Pickwick ! Chops ! Gracious heavens ! and 
Tomata sauce ! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensitive and confiding female 
to be trifled away, by such shallow artifices as these ? The next has no date what- 
ever, which is in itself suspicious. ‘Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till 
to-morrow. Slow coach.’ And then follows this very remarkable expression. 
‘Don’t trouble yourself about the warming-pan.’ The warming pan! Why, 
gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan ? When was the peace 
of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in 
itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of 
domestic furniture ? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate 
herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover 
for hidden fire — a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, a^eeably 
to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with 
a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain.? 
And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean ? For aught I know, it may 
be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally 
slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be 
veiy unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to 
his cost, will veiy soon be greased by you ! ” 

Mr. Serjeant Buzfiiz paused in this place, to see whether the jury smiled at his 
joke ; but as nobody took it but the green-grocer, whose sensitiveness on the 
subject was veiy probably occasioned by his having subjected a chaise-cart to the 
process in question on that identical morning, the learned serjeant considered it 
advisable to undergo a slight relapse into the dismals before he concluded. 

“ But enough of this, gentlemen,” said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, “ it is difficult to 
smile with an aching heart ; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are 
awakened. My client’s hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of 
speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down — but there is 
no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass — but there is no invitation 
for them to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house ; 
even the voice of the child is hushed ; his infant sports are disregarded when his 
mother weeps; his ‘alley tors’ and his *commoneys’ are alike neglected; he 
forgets the long familiar ciy of ‘ knuckle down,’ and at tip-cheese, or odd and 
even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer 
of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell Street — Pickwick, who has choked 
up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward — Pickwick, who comes before you 
to-day with his heartless Tomata sauce and warming-pans — Pickwick still rears his 
head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes without a sigh on the ruin he has 
made. Damages, gentlemen — heavy damages — is the only punishment with which 
you can visit him ; the only recompence you can award to my client. And for 
those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, 
A conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathising, a contemplative juiy of her civilised 


Mrs, Cluppins in the Box, 295 


countrymeij.” With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Seijeant Buifuz sat down, and 
Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up. 

“ Call Elizabeth Cluppins,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute afterwards, 
with renewed vigour. 

The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; another one, at a little distance 
off, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins ; and a third rushed in a breathless state into 
King Street, and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins till he was hoarse. 

Meanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined assistance of Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. 
Sanders, Mr. Dodson, and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the witness-box; and when 
she was safely perched on the top step, Mrs. Bardell stood on the bottom one, 
with the pocket-handkerchief and pattens in one hand, and a glass bottle that 
might hold about a quarter of a pint of smelling salts in the other, ready for any 
emergency. Mrs. Sanders, whose eyes were intently fixed on the judge’s face, 
planted herself close by, with the large umbrella : keeping her right thumb 
pressed on the spring with an earnest countenance, as if she were fully prepared 
to put it up at a moment’s notice. 

“ Mrs. Cluppins,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, “ pray compose yourself, ma’am.” Of 
course, directly Mrs. Cluppins was desired to compose herself she sobbed with 
increased vehemence, and gave divers alaiTning manifestations’ of an approaching 
fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her feelings being too many for her. 

“ Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins } ” said Serjeant Buzfuz, after a few un- 
important questions, “ do you recollect being in Mrs. Bardell’s back one pair ot 
stairs, on one particular morning in July last, when she was dusting Pickwick’s 
apartment ? ” 

“Yes, my Lord and Jury, I do,” replied Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ Mr. Pickwick’s sitting-room was the first-floor front, I believe .?” 

“ Yes, it were, sir,” replied Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ What were you doing in the back room, ma’am ? ” inquired the little judge. 

“My Lord and Juiy,” said Mrs. Cluppins, with interesting agitation, “I will 
not deceive you.” 

“You had better not, ma’am,” said the little judge. 

“I was there,” resumed Mrs. Cluppins, “unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I had 
been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red kidney 
purtaties, which was three pound tuppense ha’penny, when I see Mrs. Bardell’s 
street door on the jar.” • 

“ On the what } ” exclaimed the little judge. 

“Partly open, my Lord,” said Serjeant Snubbin. 

• “ She said on the jar,” said the little judge, with a cunning look. 

“ It’s all the same, my Lord,” said Serjeant Snubbin. The little judge looked 
doubtful, and said he’d make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then resumed : ^ 

“ I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good momin’, and went, in a permiscuous 
manner, up stairs, and into the back room. Gentlemen, there was the sound of 
voices in the front room, and ” 

“ And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins } ” said Serjeant Buzfuz. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” replied Mrs. Cluppins, in a majestic manner, “I 
would scorn the haction. The voices was very loud sir, and forced themselves 
upon my ear.” 

“ Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices. Was 
one of those voices, Pickwick’s ? ” 

n y'gg it were sir.” 

And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating that Mr. Pickwick addressed himself 
to Mrs. Bardell, repeated, by slow degrees, and by dint of many questions, tha 
convei-sation with which our readers aie already acquainted. 


2^6 


The Pichzvick Club. 


The juiy looked suspicious, and Mr. Seijeant Buzfuz smiled and sat down. 
They looked positively awful when Serjeant Snubbin intimated that he should not 
cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pickwick wished it to be distinctly stated that 
it was due to her to say, that her account was in substance correct. 

Mrs. Cluppins having once broken the ice, thought it a favourable opportunity 
for entering into a short dissertation on her own domestic affairs ; so, she straight- 
way proceeded to inform the court that she w'as the mother of eight children at 
that present speaking, and that she entertained confident expectations of presenting 
Mr. Cluppins with a ninth, somewhere about that day six months. At this 
interesting point, the little judge interposed most irascibly ; and the effect of the 
interposition was, that both the worthy lady and Mrs. Sanders were politely taken 
out of court, under the escort of Mr. Jackson, without further parley. 

“Nathaniel Winkle ! ” said Mr. Skimpin. 

“Here!” replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle entered the witness box, and 
having been duly sworn, bow'ed to the judge with considerable deference. 

“Don’t look at me, sir,” said the judge, sharply, in acknowledgment of the 
salute ; “ look at the jury.” 

Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought 
it most probable the jury might be ; for seeing anything in his then state of 
intellectual complication w^as wholly out of the question. 

Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising young 
man of two or three and forty, was of course anxious to confuse a witness who was 
notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as much as he could. 

“Now, sir,” said Mr. Skimpin, “have the goodness to let his Lordship and 
the jury know what yom- name is, will you ? ” and Mr. Skimpin inclined his 
head on one side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at 
the jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle’s natural 
taste for perjury would induce him to giVe some name which did not belong to 
him. 

“Winkle,” replied the witness. 

“ What’s your Christian name, sir ? ” angrily inquired the little judge. 

“Nathaniel, sir.” 

“ Daniel, — any other name .? ” 

“ Nathaniel, sir — my Lord, I mean.” 

“ Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel ? ” 

“No, my Lord, only Nathaniel ; not Daniel at all.” 

“ What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir ? ” inquired the judge. 

“I didn’t, my Lord,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“You did, sir,” replied the judge, with a severe frown. “How could I have 
got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, sir ? ” 

This argument, was, of course, unanswerable. 

“ Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,” interposed Mr. Skimpin, 
with another glance at the jury. “ We shall find means to refresh it before we 
have quite done with him, I dare say.” 

“ You had better be careful, sir,” said the little judge, with a sinister look at 
the witness. 

Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner, 
which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a disconcerted 
pickpocket. 

“ Now, Mr. Winkle,” said Mr. Skimpin, “ attend to me, if you please, sir ; and 
let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his Lordship’s 
injunction to be careful. I believe you are a particular friend of Pickwick, the 
defendant, are you not ? ” 


Mr. IFinkle in the Box. 


“ T have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment, 
nearly ” 

“ Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a 
particular friend of the defendant’s ? ” 

“ I was just about to say, that ” 

“ Will you, or will you not, answer my question, sir ? ” 

“ If you lon’t answer the question you’ll be committed, sir,” interposed the little 
judge, looking over his note-book. 

“ Come, sir,” said Mr. Skimpin, “ yes or no, if you please.” 

“ Yes, I am,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“Yes, you are. And why couldn’t you say that at once, sir? Perhaps you 
know the plaintiff, too ? Eh, Mr. Winlde ? ” 

“ I don’t know her ; I’ve seen her.” 

“ Oh, you don’t know her, but you’ve seen her ? Now, have the goodness to 
tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.” 

“ I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went to 
call on Mr. Pickwick in Gosweil Street.” 

“ How often have you seen her, sir ? ” 

“ How often ? ” 

“ Yes, Mr. AVinkle, how often ? I’ll repeat the question for you a dozen times, 
if you require it, sir.” And the learned gentleman, with a fimi and steady frown, 
jdaced his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously at the jury. 

On this question there arose the edifying brow-beating, customary on such 
points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say how 
many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if he had seen her 
twenty times, to which he replied, “ Certainly, — more than that.” Then he was 
asked whether he hadn’t seen her a hundred times — whether he couldn’t swear 
that he had seen her more than fifty times — whether he didn’t know that he had 
seen her at least seventy-five times — and so forth ; the satisfactoiy conclusion 
which was arrived at, at last, being, that he had better take care of himself, and 
mind what he was about. The witness having been by these means reduced to 
the requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows : 

“Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at 
these apartments in the plaintiff’s house in Gosweil Street, on one particular morn- 
ing, in the month of July last ?” 

“Yes, Ido.” 

“Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of Tupman, 
and another of the name of Snodgrass ? ” 

“Yes, I was.” 

“ Aj-e they here ? ” 

“ Yes, they are,” replied Mr. Winlde, looking very earnestly towards the spot 
^^ here his friends were stationed. 

“Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,” said Mr. 
Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. “ They must tell their stories 
without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet taken place (another 
look at the jury). Now, sir, tell the gentlemen of the jury what you saw on 
entering the defendant’s room, on this particular morning. Come ; out with it, 
sir ; we must have it, sooner or later.” 

“ The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms, with his 
hands clasping her waist,” replied Mr. Winlde with natural hesitation, “and the 
plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.” 

“ Did you hear the defendant say anything ?” 

“ I hea*-d him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her to 


'^he Pickwick Club. 


298 

tompose herself, for what a situation it was, if any body should come, or words to 
that effect.” 

“Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg you 
to bear in mind his lordship’s caution. Will you undertake to swear that Pick- 
wick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question, ‘ My dear Mrs. Bar- 
dell, you’re a good creature ; compose yourself to this situation, for to this situa- 
tion you must come, or words to that effect 

“1 — I didn’t understand him so, certainly,” said Mr. Winkle, astounded at this 
ingenious do’ve-tailing of the few words he had heard. “ I was on the staircase, 
and couldn’t hear distinctly ; the impression on my mind is — ” 

“The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind, Mr. 
Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest, straightforward men,” 
interposed Mr. Skimpin. “ You were on the staircase, and didn’t distinctly hear ; 
but you will not swear that Pickwick did not make use of the expressions I have 
quoted? Do I understand that ?” 

“ No, I will not,” replied Mr. Winlde ; and down sat Mr. Skimpin wnth a 
triumphant countenance. 

Mr. Pickwick’s case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner, up to 
this point, that it could veiy well afford to have any additional suspicion cast upon 
it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather better light, if possible, Mr. 
Phunky rose for the purpose of getting something important out of Mr. Winkle in 
cross-examination. Whether he did get anything important out of him, will im- 
mediately appear. 

“ I believe, Mx. Winkle,” said Mr. Phunky, “ that Mr. Pickwick is not a young 
man ? ” 

“ Oh no,” replied Mr. Winkle ; “ old enough to be my father.” 

“You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long 
time. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to be 
man ied ?” 

“Oh no; certainly not;” replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness, that 
Mr. Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. Lawyers 
hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad witnesses : a reluctant witness, and 
a too-willing witness ; it was Mr. Winkle’s fate to figure in both characters. 

“ I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,” continued Mr. Phunky in a 
most smooth and complacent manner. “ Did you ever see anything in Mr. Pick- 
wick’s manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to believe that 
he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case ?” 

“ Oh no ; certainly not,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“ Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that of 
a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content with his own 
occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father might his daughters ?” 

“Not the least doubt of it,” replied Mr. Winkle, in the fulness of his heart. 
“That is — yes — oh yes — certainly.” 

“ You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell, or 
any other female, in the least degree suspicious ?” said Mr. Phunky, preparing to 
sit down ; for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him. 

“N — n — no,” replied Mr. Winkle, “except on one trifling occasion, which, I 
have no doubt, might be easily explained.” 

Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat dowm when Serjeant Snubbin 
winked at him, or if Serjeant Buzluz had stopped this irregular cross-examination 
at the outset (which he knew better than to do ; observing Mr. Winkle’s anxiety, 
and Well knowing it would, in all probability, lead to something seiwiceable to 
him), this unfortunate admission would not have been elicited. The moment the 


Damaging Evidence of Mr, IVinkle. 299 

words fell from Mr. Winkle’s lips, INIr. Phunky sat do^vT^, and .Serjeant Snubbin 
rather hastily told him he might leave the box, which !Mi. Winkle prepaied to do 
with gieat readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him. 

“Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!” said Serjeant Buzfuz, “will your lordship have the 
goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour towards 
females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be his father, was 

“ You hear what the learned counsel says, sir,” observed the judge, turning to 
the miserable and agonized Air. Winlcle. “ Describe the occasion to which you 
refer.” 

“ Aly lord,” said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, “ I — ^I’d rather not.” 

“ Perhaps so,” said the little judge ; “ but you must.” 

Amid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out, that the 
trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick’s being found in a lady’s sleep- 
ing apartment at midnight ; which had terminated, he believed, in the breaking off 
of the projected marriage of the lady in question, and had led, he knew, to the 
whole party being forcibly carried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and 
justice of the peace, for the borough of Ipswich I 

“You may leave the box, sir,” said Seijeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did leave 
the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and Vulture, where he was 
discovered some hours after, by the waiter, groaning in a hollow and dismal man- 
ner, with his head buried beneath the sofa cushions. 

Tracy Tupman, and Augustus Snodgrass, were severally called into the box ; 
both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend ; and each was driven to 
the verge of desperation by excessive badgering. 

Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Seijeant Buzfuz, and cross- 
examined by Seijeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that Pickwick 
would marry Mrs. Bardell ; knew that Mrs. Bardell’s being engaged to Pickwick 
was the cuirent topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, after the fainting in 
July ; had been told it herself by Airs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Airs. 
Bunkin which clear-starched, but did not see either Airs. Aludbeiry or Airs. Bun- 
kin in jourt. Had heard Pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have 
another father Did not know that Airs. Bardell was at that time keeping com- 
pany with th'- baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is; 
now married. Couldn’t swear that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of the baker, 
but should tk)' ic that the baker \vas not very fond of Airs. Bardell, or he w'ouldn’t 
have mar k d somebody else. Thought Airs. Bardell fainted away on the morning 
in July, bee U-se Pickwick asked her to name the day ; knew that she (witness) 
fainted aw y stone dead when Air. Sanders asked her to name the day, and be- 
lieved thr £ everybody as called herself a lady would do the same, under similar 
circumstances. Heard Pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but 
upon her oath did not know the difference between an alley tor and a commoney. 

By the Court. — During the period of her keeping company with Air. Sanders, 
had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of their coirespondence 
Mr. Sanders had often called her a “ duck,” but never “ chops,” nor yet “ tomata 
sauce.” He was particularly fond of ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of 
chops and tomata sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of affection. 

Seijeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited, if 
that were possible, and vociferated : “Call Samuel Weller.” 

It was quite unnecessaiy to call Samuel Weller ; for Samuel Weller stepped 
briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced ; and placing his hat on 
the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a bird’s-eye view of the bar, and a com- 
prehensive suiwey of the bench, with a remarkably cheerful and lively aspect. 

** What’s your name, sir ?” inquired the judge. 


300 


The Pickwick Club, 


“ Sam Weller, my lord,” replied that gentleman. 

“ Do you spell it with a ‘ V’ or a ‘ W ?’ ” inquired the judge 

“That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my lord,” replied Sara; 
“ I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my life, but I spells 
it with a ‘ V.’ ” 

Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, “ Quite right too, Samivel, quite 
right. Put it dosvn a we, my lord, put it down a we.” ... 

“ Wlio is that, who dares to address tlie court?” said tire little judge, looking 
up. “ Usher.” 

“Yes, my lord.” 

“ Bring that person here instantly.” 

“ Yes, my lord.” 

But as the usher didn’t find the person, he didn’t bring him ; and, after a great 
commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the culprit, sat down again. 
The little judge turned to the witness as soon as his indignation would allow him 
to speak, and said, 

“ Do you know who that was, sir ?” 

“ I rayther suspect it was my father, my lord,” replied Sam. 

“ Do you see him here now ?” said the judge. 

“ No, I don’t, my lord,” replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern in the 
roof of the court. 

“If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him instantly,” 
said the judge. 

Sam boAved his acknowledgments and turned, with unimpaired cheerfulness of 
countenance, towards Seijeant Buzfuz. 

“ Now, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz. 

“Now, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this case. 
Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.” 

“ I mean to speak up, sir,” replied Sam ; “ I am in the service o’ that ’ere 
gen’l’man, and a wery good service it is.” 

“Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?” said Seijeant Buzfuz, with 
jocularity. 

“ Oh, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three 
hundred and fifty lashes,” replied Sam. 

“You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, sir,” interposed 
the judge ; “ it’s not evidence.” 

“ Wery good, my lord,” replied Sam. 

“ Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you Avere 
first engaged by the defendant; eh, Mr. Weller?” said Seijeant Buzfuz. 

“ Yes 1 do sir,” replied Sam. 

“ HaA^e the goodness to tell the jury what it was.” 

“ I had a reg’lar neAv fit out o’ clothes that momin’, gen’l’men of the jury,” said 
Sam, “ and that was a wery partickler and uncommon circumstance vith me in 
those days.” 

Hereupon there was a general laugh ; and the little judge, looking Avith an angry 
countenance over his desk, said, “ You had better be careful, sir.” 

“ So Mr. PickAvick said at the time, my lord,” replied Sam ; “ and I was wery 
careful o’ that ’ere suit o’ clothes ; Avery careful indeed, my lord.” 

The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam’s features weie 
so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and motioned Serjeant 
Buzfuz to proceed. 

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his arms 


301 


Mr. Samuel Weller sets a Trap. 

emphatically, and turning half-round to the juiy, as if in mute assurance that he 
would bother the witness yet : “Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, that you saA/? 
nothing of this fainting on the part of the plaintiff in the arms of the defendant, 
which you have heard described by the witnesses 

“ Certainly not,” replied Sam, “ I was in the passage ’till they called me up, and 
then the old lady was not there.” 

“ Now, attend, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen into the 
inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a show of taking 
down his answer. “ You were in the passage, and yet saw nothing of what was 
going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller ?” 

“Yes, I have a pair of eyes,” replied Sam, “ and that’s just it. If they wos a 
pair o’ patent double million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of hextra power, p’raps 
I might be able to see through a flight o’ stairs and a deal door ; but bein’ only 
eyes, you see, my wision ’s limited.” 

At this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance of irrita- 
tion, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of manner, the spec- 
tators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant Buzfuz looked particularly 
foolish. After a short consultation with Dodson and Fogg, the learned Serjeant 
again turned towards Sam, and said, with a painful effort to conceal his vexation, 
“Now, Mr. Weller, I’ll ask you a question on another point, if you please.” 

“If you please, sir,” rejoined Sam, with the utmost good-humour. 

“Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell’s house, one night in November 
last 

“ Oh yes, weiy well.” 

“ Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering his 
spirits ; “I thought we should get at something at last.” 

“ I rayther thought that, too, sir,” replied Sam ; and at this the spectators tittered 

again. 

“Well ; I suppose you went up to have a little talk about this trial — eh, Mr. 
Weller.'*” said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury. 

“ I went up to pay the rent ; but we did get a talkin’ about the trial,” replied Sam. 

“ Oh, you did get a talking about the trial,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, brightening 
up with the anticipation of some important discovery. “ Now what passed about 
the trial ; will you have the goodness to tell us, Mr. Weller ?” 

“ Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,” replied Sam. “ Arter a few unimportant 
obseiwations from the two wirtuous females as has been examined here to-day, the 
ladies gets into a very great state o’ admiration at the honourable conduct of 
Mr. Dodson and Fogg — them two gen’l’men as is settin’ near you now.” This, 
of course, drew general attention to Dodson and Fogg, who looked as virtuous as 
possible. 

“ The attorneys for the plaintiff,” said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. “ Well ! They spoke 
in high praise pf the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, the attor- 
neys for the plaintiff, did they?” 

“ Yes,” said Sam, “ they said what a wery gen’rous thing it was o’ them to have 
taken up the case on spec, and to charge nothing at all for costs, unless they got 
’em out of Mr. Pickwick.” 

At this ver}' unexpected reply, the spectators tittered again, and Dodson and 
I^ogg, turning veiy red, leant over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a hunied mannei 
whispered something in his ear. 

“ You are quite right,” said Serjeant Buzfuz aloud, with affected composure. 
“ It’s perfectly useless, my lord, attempiing to get at any evidence through the 
Impenetrable stupidi'y of this witness. I will no*^ trouble the court by asking him 
suny more questions. Stand down, sir.” 


$02 


The Pickwick Club 


“ Would any other gen’l’man like to ask me anythin’ ? *’ inquired Sam, taking 
up his hat, and looking round most deliberately. 

“Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,” said Serjeant Snubbin, laughing. 

“You may go down, sir,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, waving his hand impatiently. 
Sam went down accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson and Fogg’s case as 
much haiin as he conveniently could, and saying just as little respecting Mr. 
Pickwick as might be, which was precisely the object he had had in view 
all along. 

“I have no objection to admit, my lord,” said Seijeant Snubbin, “if it wdll 
save the examination of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has retired from busi- 
ness, and is a gentleman of considerable independent property.” 

“Very well,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, putting in ^e two letters to be read, 
“ Then that’s my case, my lord.” 

Serjeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant ; and a 
very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he bestowed the 
highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of Mr. Pickwick ; but 
inasmuch as our readers are far better able to form a correct estimate of that 
gentleman’s merits and deserts, than Serjeant Snubbin could possibly be, we do 
not feel called upon to enter at any length into the learned gentleman’s obseiwa- 
tions. He attempted to show that the letters which had been exhibited, merely 
related to Mr. Pickwick’s dinner, or to the preparations for receiving him in his 
apartments on his return from some countiy excursion. It is sufficient to add in 
general terms, that he did the best he could for Mr. Pickwick ; and the best, as 
every body knows, on the infallible authority of the old adage, could do no more. 

Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old-established and most approved 
form. He read as much of his notes to the jury as he could decipher on so short 
a notice, and made running comments on the evidence as he went along. li 
Mrs. Bardell were right, it was perfectly clear that Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and 
if they thought the evidence of Mrs. Cluppins worthy of credence they would 
believe it, and, if they didn’t, why they wouldn’t. If they were satisfied that a 
breach of promise of marriage had been committed, they would find for the 
plaintiff with such damages as they thought proper ; and if, on the other 
hand, it appeared to them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they 
would find for the defendant with no damages at all. The jury then retired to 
their private room to talk the matter over, and the judge retired to his private 
room, to refresh himself with a mutton chop and a glass of sherry. 

An anxious quarter of an hour elapsed ; the jury came back ; the judge 
was fetched in. Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the foreman 
with an agitated countenance and a quickly beating heart. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the individual in black, “ are you all agreed upon your 
verdict ? ” 

“We are,” replied the foreman. 

“ Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, «r for the defendant ? ” 

“ For the plaintiff.” 

“ With what damages, gentlemen } ” 

“ Seven hundred and fifty pounds.” 

Mr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses, folded them 
into their case, and put them in his pocket ; then having drawn on his gloves 
jvith great nicety, and stared at the foreman all the while, he mechanically foF 
lowed Mr. Perker and the blue bag out of court. 

They stopped in a side room while Perker paid the court fees ; and here, Mr 
Pickwick was joined by his friends. Here, too, he encountered Messrs. Dc^oa 
%nd Fogg, rubbing theii hands with every token of outw'ard satisfaction. 


Virtues of an Alibi. 303 

“Well, gentlemevi,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Well, sir,” said Dodson ; for self and partner. 

“You imagine you’ll get your costs, don’t you, gentlemen?” saii Mr. 
Pickwick. 

I’ogg said they thought it rather probable. Dodson smiled, and said they’d 

try. 

“ You may try, and trv, and try again, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg,” said Mr. 
Pickwick vehemently, “ but not one farthing of costs or damages do you evei 
get from me, if I spend the rest of my existence in a de’otor’s prison.” 

“ Ha, ha ! ” laughed Dodson. “ You'll think better of that, before next term, 
Mr. Pickwick.” 

“ He, he, he ! We’ll soon see about that Mr. Pickwick,” grinned Fogg. 
Speechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allow'ed himself to be led by his 
solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into a hackney-coach, which 
had been fetched for the purpose, by the ever watcliful Sam Weller. 

Sam had put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the box, when he 
felt himself gently touched on the shoulder ; and looking round, his father stood 
before him. The old gentleman’s countenance wore a moumfal expression, as he 
shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents : 

“ I know’d what ’ud come ’o this here mode ’o doin’ bisness. Oh Sammy, 
Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi ! ” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK THINKS HE HAD BETTER GO TO BATH; AND GOES 

ACCORDINGLY. 

“ But surely, my dear sir,” said little Perker, as he stood in Mr. Pickwick’s 
apartment on the morning after the trial : “ Surely you don’t really mean — 
really and seriously now, and irritation apart — that you vi'on’t pay these costs and 
damages ? ” 

“Not one halfpenny,” said Mr. Pickwick, firmly; “not one halfpenny.” 

“ Hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn’t renew the 
bill,” observed Mr. Weller, who was clearing away the breakfast things. 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “have the goodness to step down stairs.” 

“ Cert’nly, sir,” replied Mr. Weller ; and acting on Mr. Pickwick’s gentle hint, 
Sam retired. 

“ No, Perker,” said Mr. Pickwick, with great seriousness of manner, “ my 
friends here, have endeavoured to dissuade me from this determination, but with- 
out avail. I shall employ myself as usual, until the opposite party have the 
power of issuing a legal process of execution against me ; and if they are vile 
enough to avail themselves of it, and to arrest my person, I shall yield myself up 
with perfect cheerfulness and content of heart. When can they do this ? ” 

“ T hev can issue execution, my dear sir, for the amount of the damages and 
taxed co*sts, next term,” replied Perker, “just two months hence, my dear sir.” 

“ Very good,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Until that time, my dear fellow, let me 
hear no more of the matter. And now,” continued Mr. Pickwick, looking round 
on his friends with a good-humoured smile, and a sparkle in the eye which no 
spectacles could dim or conceal, “the only question is, Wliere sh.all we go 
next ? ” 

Mr. Tupijan and Mr. Snodgrass were too much affected by their fne&d*s 


304 


The Pickwick Club. 


heroism to offer any reply. Mr. Winkle had not yet sufficiently recovered the 
recollection of his evidence at the trial, to make any observation on any subject, 
so Air. Pickwick paused in vain. 

“Well,” said that gentleman, “if you leave me to suggest our destination, I 
say Bath. I think none of us have ever been there.” 

Nobody had ; and as the proposition was warmly seconded by Perker, who 
considered it extremely probable that if Mr. Pickwick saw a little change and 
gaiety he would be inclined to think better of his determination, and worse of a 
debtor’s prison, it was canied unanimously : and Sam was at once dispatched 
to the White Horse Cellar, to take five places by the half-past seven o’clock coach, 
next morning. 

There were just two places to be had inside, and just three to be had out ; so 
Sam Weller booked for them all, and having exchanged a few compliments with 
the booking-office clerk on the subject of a pewter half-crown which was tendered 
him as a portion of his “ change,” walked back to the George and Vulture, where 
he was prettily busily employed until bed-time in reducing clothes and linen into 
the smallest possible compass, and exerting his mechanical genius in constructing 
a variety of ingenious devices for keeping the lids on boxes which had neither 
locks nor hinges. 

The next was a very unpropitious morning for a journey — muggy, damp, and 
drizzly. The horses in the stages that were going out, and had come through the 
city, were smclving so, that the outside passengers were invisible. The newspaper- 
sellers looked moist, and smelt mouldy ; the wet ran off the hats of the orange- 
venders as they thrust their heads into the coach windows, and diluted the insides 
in a refreshing manner. The Jews with the fifty-bladed penknives shut them up 
in despair ; the men with the pocket-books made pocket-books of them. Watch- 
guards and toasting- forks were alffie at a discount, and pencil-cases and sponge 
were a diaig in the market. 

Leaving Sam Weller to rescue the luggage from the seven or eight porters 
who flung themselves savagely upon it, the moment the coach stopped : and 
finding that they were about twenty minutes too early : Air. Pickwick and his 
friends went for shelter into the travellers’ room — the last resource of human 
dejection. 

The travellers’ room at the White Horse Cellar is of course uncomfortable ; it 
would be no travellers’ room if it were not. It is the fight-hand parlour, into 
which an aspiring kitchen fire-place appears to have walked, accompanied by a 
rebellious poker, tongs, and shovel. It is divided into boxes, for the solitary 
confinement of travellers, and is furnished with a clock, a looking-glass, and a 
five waiter : which latter article is kept in a small kennel for washing glasses, in a 
comer of the apartment. 

One of these boxes was occupied, on this particular occasion, by a stem-eyed 
man of about five-and-forty, who had a bald and glossy forehead, with a good 
deal of black hair at the sides and back of his head, and large black whiskers. 
He was buttoned up to the chin in a bro^vn coat ; and had a large seal-skin travel- 
ling cap, and a great-coat and cloak, lying on the seat beside him. He looked 
rip from his breakfast as Air. Pickwick entered, with a fierce and peremptory 
air, which was very dignified ; and having scrutinised that gentleman and his 
companions to his entire satisfaction, hummed a tune, in a manner which seemed 
to say that he rather suspected somebody wanted to take advantage of him, but it 
vouldn’t do. 

“Waiter,” said the gentleman' with the whiskers. 

“ Sir ? ” replied a man with a dirty complexion, and a towel of the sam^t 
emerging from the kennel before mentioned. 


An Excited Individual. 


305 


“ Some more toast.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Buttered toast, mind,” said the gentleman, fiercely, 

“ D ’recti 3", sir,” replied the waiter. 

The gentleman with the whiskers hummed a tune in the same manner as before, 
and pending the arrival of the toast, advanced to the front of the fire, and, taking 
his coat tails under his amis, looked at his boots, and ruminated. 

“ I wonder whereabouts in Bath this coach puts up,” said Mr Pickwick, mildly 
addressing Mr. Winkle. 

“ Hum— eh— what’s that ? ” said the strange man. 

“I made an observation to my friend, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick, always ready 
to enter into conversation. “ I wondered at what house the Bath coach put up. 
Perhaps you can inform me.” 

“ Are you going to Bath ? ” said the strange man. 

“I am, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ And those other gentlemen ? ” 

“ They are going also,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Not inside — I’ll be damned if you’re going inside,” said the strange man. 

“Not all of us,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ No, not all of you,” said the strange man emphatically. “ I ’ve taken two 
places. If they try to squeeze six people into an infernal box that only holds four, 
I ’ll take a post-chaise and bring an action. I ’ve paid my fare. It won’t do ; I 
told the clerk when I took my places that it wouldn’t do. I know these things have 
been done. I know they are done every day ; but / never was done, and I never 
will be. Those who know me best, best know it ; crush me ! ” Here the fierce 
gentleman rang the bell with great violence, and told the waiter he’d better bring 
the toast in five seconds, or he’d know the reason why. 

“My good sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ you will allow me to obser\’e that this 
is a very unnecessary display of excitement. I have only taken places inside 
for two.” 

“I am glad to hear it,” said the fierce man. “I withdraw my expressions. I 
tender an apology. There’s my card. Give me your acquaintance. ” 

“With great pleasure, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ We are to be fellow 
travellers, and I hope we shall find each other’s society mutually agieeable.” 

“ I hope we shall,” said the fierce gentleman. “ I know we shall. I like your 
looks ; they please me. Gentlemen, your hands and names. Know me.” 

Of course, an interchange of friendly salutations followed this gracious speech , 
and the fierce gentleman immediately proceeded to inform the friends, in the 
same short, abrupt, jerking sentences, that his name was Dowler ; that he was 
going to Bath on pleasure ; that he was formerly in the army ; that he had now 
set up in business as a gentleman ; that he lived upon the profits ; and that the 
individual for whom the second place was taken, was a personage no less illustrious 
than Mrs. Dowler his lady wife. 

“She’s a fine woman,” said Mr. Dowler. “ I am proud of her. I have 
reason.” 

“ I hope I shall have the pleasure of judging,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. 

“ You shall,” replied Dowler. “ She shall know 3'ou. She shall esteem you. 
I courted her under singular circumstances. I won her through a rash vow. Thus. 
I saw her ; I loved her ; I proposed ; she refused me. — ‘ You love another ? ’ — • 
‘Spare my blushes.’ — ‘I know him.’ — ‘You do.’ — ‘Veiygood; if he remains 
here. I’ll skin him.’ ” 

“ Lord bless me ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, involuntarily. 

“ Did you skin the gentleman, sir } ” inquired Mr. Winlde, with a very pale face- 

X 


3o6 


The Pickwick Club. 


** I wrote him a note. I said it was a painful thing. And so it was.” 

“ Certainly,” interposed Mr. Winkle. 

“ I said I had pledged my word as a gentleman to skin him. My character was 
at stake. I had no alteniative. As an officer in His Majesty’s service, I was 
bound to skin him. I regretted the necessity, but it must be done. He was open 
to conviction. He saw that the rules of the sei-vice were imperative. He fled. I 
married her. Here’s the coach. That’s her head.” 

As Mr. Dowler concluded, he pointed to a stage Avhich had just driven up, from 
the open window of which a rather pretty face in a bright blue bonnet was looking 
among the crowd on the pavement : most probably for the rash man himself. Mr. 
Dowler paid his bill and hurried out with his travelling-cap, coat, and cloak ; and 
Mr. Pickwick and his friends followed to secure their places. 

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had seated themselves at the back part of the 
coach ; Mr. Winkle had got inside ; and Mr. PickAvick Avas preparing to folloAV 
him, when Sam Weller came up to his master, and whispering in his ear, begged 
to speak to him, with an air of the deepest mystery. 

“ Well, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ what’s the matter now ?” 

“ Here’s rayther a rum go, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ What inquired Mr. PickAvick. 

“This here, sir,” rejoined Sam. “ I ’m AV’ery much afeerd, sir, that the pro- 
periator o’ this here coach is a playin’ some imperence vith us.” 

“How is that, Sam?” said Mr. Pickwick; “aren’t the names down on the 
way-bill ?” 

“ The names is not only down on the vay-bill, sir,” replied Sam, “ but they’ve 
painted \’un on ’em up, on the door o’ the coach.” As Sam spoke, he pointed to 
that part of the coach door on Avhich the proprietor’s name usually appears ; and 
there, sure enough, in gilt letters of a goodly size, Avas the magic name of 
Pickwick ! 

“ Dear me,” exclaimed Mr. PiclcAvick, quite staggered by the coincidence ; 
“ what a very extraordinary thing ! ” 

“Yes, but that ain’t all,” said Sam, again directing his master’s attention to 
the coach door ; “not content vith writin’ up PickAvick, they puts ‘Moses ’ afore 
it, vich I call addin’ insult to injury, as the parrot said ven they not only took him 
from his native land, but made him talk the English langwidge arterwards.” 

“ It’s odd enough certainly, Sam,” said Mr. PickAvick ; “ but if we stand talk- 
ing here, we shall lose our places.” 

“ Wot, ain’t nothin’ to be done in consequence, sir ?” exclaimed Sam, perfectly 
aghast at the coolness with which Mr. Pickwick prepared to ensconce himself 
inside. 

“ Done !” said Mr. Pickwick. “What should be done ?” 

“Ain’t nobody to be whopped for talcin’ this here liberty, sir?” said 
Mr. Weller, Avho had expected that at least he would have been commissioned to 
challenge the guard and coachman to a pugilistic encounter on the spot. 

“ Certainly not,” replied Mr. Pickwick eagerly ; “ not on any account. Jump 
up to your seat directly.” 

“ I’m wery much affierd,” muttered Sam to himself, as he turned away, “that 
somethin’ queer’s come over the governor, or he’d never ha’ stood this so quiet. 
I hope that ’ere trial hasn’t broke his spirit, but it looks bad, Avery bad.” 
Mr. Weller shook his head gravely ; and it is worthy of remark, as an illustration 
of the manner in Avhich he took this circumstance to heart, that he did not speak 
another word until the coach reached the Kensington turnpike. Which was so 
long a time for him to remain taciturn, that the fact may be considered wholly 
unprecedented. 




Master of the Ceremonies. 307 

Nothing worthy of special mention occurred during the journey. Mr. Dowler 
related a variety of anecdotes, all illustrative of his own personal prowess and des- 
peration, and appealed to Mrs. Dowler in coiToboration thereof ; when Mrs. Dowler 
invariably brought in, in the form of an appendix, some remarkable fact or circum- 
stance which Mr. Dowler had forgotten, or had perhaps through modesty omitted : 
for ^he addenda in every instance went to show that Mr. Dowler was even a more 
wonderful fellow than he made himself out to be. Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle 
listened with great admiration, and at intervals conversed with Mrs. Dowler, who 
was a very agreeable and fascinating person. So, what between Mr. Dowler’s 
stories, and Mrs. Dowler’s charms, and Mr. Pickwick’s good humour, and Mr. 
Winkle’s good listening, the insides contrived to be very companionable all the way. 

The outsides did as outsides always do. They were very cheerful and talkative 
at the beginning of every stage, and very dismal and sleepy in the middle, and very 
bright and wakeful again towards the end. There was one young gentleman in an 
India-rubber cloak, who smoked cigars all day ; and there was another young 
gentleman in a parody upon a great coat, who lighted a good many, and feeling 
obviously unsettled after the second whiff, threw them away when he thought 
nobody was looking at him. There was a third young man on the box who wished 
to be learned in cattle ; and an old one behind, who was familiar with farming. 
There was a constant succession of Christian names in smock frocks and white 
coats, who were invited to have a “ lift ” by the guard, and who knew every horse 
and hostler on the road and off it ; and there was a dinner which would have been 
cheap at half-a-crown a mouth, if any moderate number of mouths could have 
eaten it in the time. And at seven o’clock P.M., Mr. Pickwick and his friends, 
and Mr. Dowler and his wife, respectively retired to their private sitting-rooms at 
the White Hart hotel, opposite the Great Pump Room, Bath, where the waiters, 
from their costume, might be mistaken for Westminster boys, only they destroy 
the illusion by behaving themselves much better. 

Breakfast had scarcely been cleared away on the succeeding morning, when a 
waiter brought in Mr. Dowler’s card, with a request to be allowed permission to 
introduce a friend. Mr. Dowler at once followed up the delivery of the card, by 
bringing himself and the friend also. 

The friend was a charming young man of not inuch more than fifty, dressed in a 
very bright blue coat with resplendent buttons, black trousers, and the thinnest pos- 
sible pair of highly-polished boots. A gold eye-glass was suspended from his 
neck by a short broad black ribbon ; a gold snuff-box was lightly clasped in his left 
hand ; gold rings innumerable, glittered cn his fingers ; and a large diamond pin 
set in gold glistened in his shirt frill. He had a gold watch, and a gold curb 
chain with large gold seals ; and he carried a pliant ebony cane with a heavy gold 
top. His linen was of the very whitest, finest, and stiffest ; his wig of the glos- 
siest, blackest, and curliest. His snuff was princes’ mixture ; his scent bouquet du 
roi. His features were contracted into a perpetual smile ; and his teeth were in 
such perfect order that it was difficult at a small distance to tell the real from the 
false. 

“ Mr. Pickwick,” said Mr. Dowler ; “ my friend, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, 
M.C Br-otam ; Mr. Pickwick. Know each other.” 

“ Welcome to Ba — ath, sir. This is indeed an acquisition. Most welcome to 
Ba— ath, sir. It is long— very long, IMr. Pickwick, since you drank the waters. 
It ajipears an age, Mr. Pickwick. Re — markable ! ” . ^ 

Such were the expressions with which Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, M.C., 
took Mr. Pickwick’s hand ; retaining it in his, meantime, and shrugging up hb 
shoulders with a constant succession of bows, as if he really could not make up his 
mind to tlie trial of letting it go again. 


3o8 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ It is a very long time since I drank the waters, certainly,” replied Mr. Pick- 
wick ; for to the best of my knorvledge, I was never here before.” 

“Never in Ba— ath, Mr. Pickwi.k!” exclaimed the Grand Master, letting the 
hand fall in astonishment. “Never in Ba — ath! He! he! Mr. Pickwick, you 
are a wag Not bad, not bad. Good, good. He! he! he! Re — markable!” 

“ To my shame, I must say that I am perfectly serious,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 
“I really never was here before.” 

“ Oh, I see,” exclaimed the Grand Master, looking extremely pleased ; “Yes, 
yes — good, good — better and better. You are the gentleman of whom we have 
heard. Yes ; we know you, Mr. Pickwick ; we know you.” 

“The reports of the trial in those confounded papers,” thought Mr. Pickwick, 
“ They have heard all about me.” 

“You are the gentleman residing on Clapharn Green,” resumed Bantam, “who 
lost the use of his limbs from imprudently taking cold after port wine ; who could 
not be moved in consequence of acute suffering, and who had the water from the 
King’s Bath bottled at one hundred and three degrees, and sent by waggon to his 
bed-room in town, where he bathed, sneezed, and same day recovered. Veiy 
re-markable ! ” 

Mr. Pickwick acknowledged the compliment which the supposition implied, 
but had the self-denial to repudiate it, notwithstanding ; and taking advantage of a 
moment’s silence on the part of the M. C., begged to introduce his friends, Mr. 
Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. An introduction which overwhelmed 
the M. C. with delight and honour. 

“ Bantam,” said Mr. Dowler, “ Mr. Pickwick and his friends are strangers. 
They must put their names down. Where’s the book 

“The register of the distinguished visitors in Ba — ath will be at the Pump 
Room this morning at two o’clock,” replied the M. C. “ Will you guide our 
friends to that splendid building, and enable me to procure their autographs 

“I will,” rejoined Dowler. “This is a long caU. It’s time to go. I shall be 
here again in an hour. Come.” 

“This is a ball night,” said the M. C., again taking Mr. Pickwick’s hand, as he 
rose to go. “ The ball-nights in Ba — ath are moments snatched from Paradise ; 
rendered bewitching by music, beauty, elegance, fashion, etiquette, and — and — ■ 
above all, by the absence of tradespeople, who are quite inconsistent with Paradise ; 
and who have an amalgamation of themselves at the Guildhall every fortnight, 
which is, to say the least, remarkable. Good bye, good bye ! ” and protesting all 
the way down stairs that he was most satisfied, and most delighted, and most 
overpowered, and most flattered, Angelo Cyrus Bantam, PZsquire, M. C., stepped 
into a very elegant chariot that waited at the door, and rattled off. 

At the appointed hour, Mr. Pickwick and his friends, escorted by Dowler, repaired 
to the Assembly Rooms, and wrote their names down in a book. An instance of 
condescension at which Angelo Bantam was even more overpowered than before. 
Tickets of admission to that evening’s assembly were to have been prepared for the 
whole party, but as they were not ready, Mr. Pickwick undertook, despite all the 
protestations to the contrary of Angelo Bantam, to send Sam for them at four 
o’clock in the afternoon, to the M. C.’s house in Queen Square. Having taken a 
short walk through the city, and airived at the unanimous conclusion that Park 
Street was very much like the perpendicular streets a man sees in a dream, which 
he cannot get up for the life of him, they returned to the White Hart, and dis- 
patched Sam on the enand to which his master had pledged him. 

Sam Weller put on his hat in a very easy and graceful manner, and thrusting 
his hands in his waistcoat pockets, walked with great deliberation to Queen Square, 
«rhistling as he went along, several of the most popular airs of the day, as arranged 


Plush and Powder. 


309 


witli entirely new movements for that noble instniment the organ, either mouth or 
barrel. Arriving at the number in Queen Square to which he had be-cn directed, 
he left off whistling, and gave a cheerful knock, which was instantaneously answered 
by a powdered-headed footman in gorgeous livery, and of symmetrical stature. 

“ Js this here Mr. Bantam’s, old feller ?” inquired Sam Weller, nothing abashed 
by the blaze of splendour which burst upon his sight, in the person of the powdered- 
headed footman with the gorgeous livery. 

“ Why, young man was the haughty inquiry of the powdered-headed footman. 

“ ’Cos if it is, jist you step into him with that ’ere card, and say Mr. Veller’s a 
waitin’, will you ?” said Sam. And saying it, he very coolly walked into the hall, 
and sat down. 

The powdered-headed footman slammed the door very hard, and scowled very 
grandly ; but both the slam and the scowl^ were lost upon Sam, who was regarding 
a mahogany umbrella stand with every outward token of critical approval. 

Apparently, his master’s reception of the card had impressed the powdered- 
headed footman in Sam’s favour, for when he came back from delivering it, he 
smiled in a friendly manner, and said that the answer would be ready directly. 

“ Werry good,” said Sam. “ Tell the old gen’l’m’n not to put himself in a 
perspiration. No hurry, six-foot. I ’ve had my dinner.” 

“You dine early, sir,” said the powdered-headed footman. 

“ I find I gets on better at supper when I does,” replied Sam. 

Have you been long in Bath, sir } ” inquired the powdered-headed footman. 
“ I have not had the pleasure of hearing of you before.” 

“ I haven’t created any weiy surprisin’ sensation here, as yet,” rejoined Sam, 
“ for me and the qther fash’nables only come last night.” 

“ Nice place, sir,” said the powdered-headed footman. 

“ Seems so,” observed Sam. 

“Pleasant society, sir,” remarked the powdered-headed footman. ‘‘Verj 
agieeable ser\'ants, sir.” 

“ I should think they wos,” replied Sam. “ Affable, unaffec^'d, say-nothin’-to- 
nobody sort o’ fellers.” 

“ Oh, very much so, indeed, sir,” said the powdered-headed footman, taking 
Sam’s remark as a high compliment. “Very much so indeed. Do you do any- 
thing in this way, sir.?” inquired the tall footman, producing a small snuff-box 
with a fox’s head on the top of it. 

“Not without sneezing,” replied Sam. 

“ Why, it is difficult, sir, I confess,” said the tall footman. “It may be done 
by degrees, sir. Coffee is the best practice. I carried coffee, sir, for a long time. 
It looks veiy like rappee, sir.” 

Here, a sharp peal at the bell, reduced the powdered-headed footman to the igno- 
minious necessity of putting the fox’s head in his pocket, and hastening with a 
humble countenance to Mr. Bantam’s “ study.” By the by, who ever knew a man 
who never read or wrote either, who hadn’t got some small back parlour which he 
would call a study ! 

“There is the answer sir,” said the powdered-headed footman. “I am afraid 
ycu ’ll find it inconveniently large.” 

“ Don’t mention it,” said Sam, taking a letter with a small enclosure. “ It ’s 
just possible as exhausted nature may manage to surw^ve it.” 

“I hope we shall meet again, sir,” said the powdered-headed footman, rubbing 
his hands, and following Sam out to the door-step. 

“ You are wery obligin’, sir,” replied Sam. “ Now, don’t allow yourself to be 
fatigued beyond your powers ; there ’s a amiable bein’. Consider what you owe 
to »ociety, and don’t let yourself be injured by too much work. For the sake o' 


310 


The Pickwick Club. 


your feller creeturs, keep your self as quiet as you can ; only think what a loss yori 
would be ! ” with these pathetic words, Sam Weller departed. 

“ A ver}'- singular young man that,” said the powdered-headed footman, looking 
after Mr. Weller, with a countenance which clearly showed he could make nothing 
of him. 

Sam said nothing at all. He winked, shook his head, smiled, winked again ; 
and with an expression of countenance which seemed to denote that he was greatly 
amused with something or other, walked merrily away. 

At precisely twenty minutes before eight o’clock that night, Angelo C)tus 
Bantam, Esq., the Master of the Ceremonies, emerged from his chariot at the 
door of the Assembly Rooms in the same wig, the same teeth, the same eye-glass, 
the same watch and seals, the same rings, the same shirt-pin, and the same cane. 
The only observable alterations in his appearance were, that he wore a brighter 
blue coat, with a white silk lining : black tights, black silk stockings, and pumps, 
and a white waistcoat, and was, if possible, just a thought more scented. 

Thus attired, the Master of the Ceremonies, in strict discharge of the important 
duties of his all-important office, planted himself in the rooms to receive the 
company. 

Bath being full, the company and the sixpences for tea, poured in, in shoals. 
In the ball-room, the long card-room, the octagonal card-room, the staircases, and 
the passages, the hum of many voices, and the sound of many feet, were perfectly 
bewildering. Dresses rustled, feathers waved, lights shone, and jewels sparkled. 
There was the music — not of the quadrille band, for it had not yet commenced ; 
but the music of soft tiny footsteps, with now and then a clear merry laugh — low 
and gentle, but very pleasant to hear in a female voice, whether in Bath or else- 
where. Brilliant eyes, lighted up with pleasurable expectation, gleamed from 
every side ; and look where you would, some exquisite foiTn glided gracefully 
thiough the throng, and was no sooner lost, than it was replaced by another as 
dainty and bewitching. 

In the tea-room, and hovering round the card-tables, were a vast number of 
queer old ladies and decrepid old gentlemen, discussing all the small talk and 
scandal of the day, with a relish and gusto which sufficiently bespoke the 
intensity of the pleasure they derived from the occupation. Mingled with 
these gioups, were three or four matchmaking mammas, appearing to be wholly 
absorbed by the conversation in which they M-ere taking part, but failing not from 
time to time to cast an anxious sidelong glance upon their daughters, who, 
remembering the maternal injunction to make the best use of their youth, haci 
already commenced incipient flirtations in the mislaying of scarves, putting on 
gloves, setting down cups, and so forth ; slight matters apparently, but which may 
be tinned to sui prisingly good account by expert practitioners. 

Lounging near the doors, and in remote corners, were various knots of silly 
young men, displaying various varieties of puppyism and stupidity ; amusing all 
sensible people near them with their folly and conceit ; and happily thinking 
themselves the objects of general admiration. A wise and merciful dispensation 
which no good man will quarrel with. 

And lastly, seated on some of the back benches, where they had already taken 
up their positions for the evening, were divers unmarried ladies past cheir grand 
climacteric, who, not dancing because there were no partners for them, and not 
playing cards lest they should be set down as irretrievably single, were in the 
favourable situation of being able to abuse everybody without reflecting on them- 
selves. In short, they could abuse everybody, because everybody was there. It 
was a scene of gaiety, glitter, and show ; of richly-dressed people, handsome 
mirrors, chalked floors, girandoles, and wax-candles, 'and in all parts of the seeiie 


Fashionable Society. 31 j 

gliding from spot to spot in silent softness, bowing obsequiously to tl**s party, 
nodding familiarly to that, and smiling complacently on all, was the sprucely 
attired person of Angelo Cyrus Bantam, Esquire, Master of the Ceremonies. 

“ Stop in the tea-room. Take your sixpenn’orth. They lay on hot water, and 
call it tea. Drink it,” said Mr. Dowler, in a loud voice, directing Mr. Pickwick, 
who advanced at the head of the little party, with Mrs. Dowler on his arm. Into 
the tea-room Mr. Pickwick turned ; and catching sight of him, Mr. Bantam 
corkscrewed his way through the crowd, and welcomed him with ecstasy. 

My dear sir, I am highly honoured. Ba — ath is favoured. Mrs. Dowler, 
you embellish the rooms. I congratulate you on your feathers. Re — markable !” 

“ Any body here } ” inquired Dowler, suspiciously. 

“ Any body ! The elite of Ba — ath. Mr. Pickwick, do you see the lady in 
die gauze turban } ” 

“ The fat old lady .? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick, innocently. 

“ Hush, my dear sir — nobody’s fat or old in Ba — ath. That’s the Dowager 
Lady Snuphanuph.” 

“ Is it indeed } ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ No less a person, I assure you,” said the Master of the Ceremonies. Hush. 
Draw a little nearer, Mr. Pickwick. You see the splendidly dressed young man 
coming this way i ” 

“ The one with the long hair, and the particularly small forehead .? ” inquired 
Mr. Pickwick. 

“ The same. The richest young man in Ba — ath at this moment. Young 
Lord Mutanhed.” 

“ You don’t say so } ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Yes. You’ll hear his voice in a moment, Mr. Pickwick. He’ll speak to me. 
The other gentleman with him, in the red under waistcoat and dark moustache, 
is the Honourable Mr. Crushton, his bosom friend. How do you do, my lord } ” 

“ Veway hot. Bantam,” said his lordship. 

“ It A very warm, my lord,” replied the M. C. 

“ Confounded,” assented the Honourable Mr. Crushton. 

“ Have you seen his lordship’s mail cart. Bantam ” inquired the Honourable 
Mr. Crushton, after a short pause, during which young Lord Mutanhed had 
been endeavouring to stare Mr. Pickwick out of countenance, and Mr. Crushton 
had been reflecting what subject Jiis lordship could talk about best. 

“ Dear .me, no,” replied the M. C. “ A mail cart ! What an excellent idea. 
Re — markable ! ” 

“ Gwacious heavens ! ” said his lordship, “ I thought evewebody had seen the 
new mail cart ; it’s the neatest, pwettiest, gwacefullest thing tP-at ever wan upon 
wheels. Painted wed, with a cweam piebald.” 

“ With a real box for the letters, and all complete,” said the Honourable Mr. 
Crushton. 

“ And a little seat in fwont, with an iwon wail, for the dwiver,” added his lord- 
ship. “ I dwove it over to Bwistol the other morning, in a cwimson coat, with 
two servants widing a quarter of a mile behind ; and confound me if the people 
didn’t wush out of their cottages, and awest my pwogwess, to loiow if I wasn’t 
the post. Glorw'ious, glorwious ! ” 

At this anecdote his lordship laughed very heartily, as did the listeners, of 
course. Then, drawing his arm through that of the obsequious Mr. Ciushton, 
Lord Mutanhed walked away. 

“ Delightful young man, his lordship,” said the Master of the Ceremonies. 

“ So I should think,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drily. 

The dancing having commenced, the necessary introductions having been made, 


The Pickwick Club, 


31a 

and all preliminaries arranged, Angelo Bantam rejoined Mr. Pickwick, and led 
him into the card-room. 

Just at the very moment of their entrance, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph ai.d 
two other ladies of an ancient and whist-like appearance, were hovering over 
an unoccupied card -table ; and they no sooner set eyes upon Mr. Pickwick under 
the convoy of Angelo Bantam, than they exchanged glances with each other, 
seeing that he was precisely the very person they wanted, to make up the rubber. 

“My dear Bantam,” said the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph, coaxingly, “ find us 
some nice creature to make up this table ; there’s a good soul.” Mr. Pickwick 
happened to be looking another way at the moment, so her ladyship nodded her 
head towards him, and frowned expressively. 

“ My friend Mr. Pickwick, my lady, will be most happy, I am sure, re — 
markably so,” said the M. C., taking the hint. “ Mr. Pickwick, Lady Snuph- 
anuph — Mrs. Colonel Wugsby — Miss Bolo.” 

Mr. Pickwick bowed to each of the ladies, and, finding escape impossible, 
cut. Mr. Pickwick and Miss Bolo against Lady Snuphanuph and Mrs. Colonel 
Wugsby. 

As the trump card was turned up, at the commencement of the second deal, 
two young ladies hunied into the room, and took their stations on either side 
of Mrs. Colonel Wugsby’s chair, where they waited patiently until the hand was 
over. 

“Now, Jane,” said Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, turning to one of the girls, “what 
is it } ” 

“I came to ask, ma, whether I might dance with the youngest Mr. Crawley,” 
whispered the prettier and younger of the two. 

“ Good God, Jane, how can you think of such things?” replied the mamma, 
indignantly. “ Haven’t you repeatedly heard that his father has eight hundred 
a-year, which dies with him ? I am ashamed of you. Not on any account.” 

“ Ma,” whispered the other, who was much older than her sister, and very in- 
sipid and artificial, “ Lord Mutanhed has been introduced to m® I said I thought 
I wasn’t engaged, ma.” 

“ You’re a sweet pet, my love,” replied Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, tapping her 
daughter’s cheek wdth her fan, “ and are always to be trusted. He’s immensely 
rich, my dear. Bless you !” With these words Mrs. Colonel Wugsby kissed her 
eldest daughter most afl'ectionately, and, fi owning in a warning manner upon the 
other, sorted her cards. 

Poor Mr. Pickwick ! he had never played with three thorough -paced female 
card-players before. They w’ere so desperately sharp, that they quite frightened 
him. If he played a wrong card. Miss Bolo looked a small armoury of daggers; 
if he stopped to consider which was the right one. Lady Snuphanuph would throw 
herself back in her chair, and smile with a mingled glance of impatience and pity 
to Mis. Colonel Wugsby: at which Mrs. Colonel Wugsby would shrug up her 
shoulders, and cough, as much as to say she wondered whether he ever would 
begin. Then, at the end of eve^ hand. Miss Bolo would inquire with a dismal 
countenance and reproachful sigh, why ]\Ir. PiclcAvick had not retuined that 
diamond, or led the club, or roughed the spade, or finessed the heart, or led 
through the honour, or brought out the ace, or played up to the king, or some 
such thing; and in reply to all these grave charges, kir. Pickwick would be 
wholly unable to plead any justification whatever, having by this time forgotten 
all about ^he game. People came and looked on, too, which made Mr. Pickwick 
nervous. Besides all this, there was a gi-eat deal of distracting conversation near 
the table, between Angelo Bantam and the two Miss Matinters, who, being singh 
•nd singular, paid gre^* court to the blaster of the Ceremonies, in the hope 0/ 


Drinking the Bath Waters, 


313 


getting a stray partner now and then. All these things, combined wnh the noises 
and intei ruptions of constant comings in and goings out, made Mr. Pickwick play 
rather badly; the cards were against him, also; and when they left off at ten 
minutes past eleven, Miss Bolo rose from the table considerably agitated, and went 
straight home, in a flood of tears, and a sedan chair. 

Being joined by his friends, who one and all protested that they had scarce!) 
ever sjDent a more pleasant evening, Mr. Pickwick accompanied them to the 
White Hart, and having soothed his feelings with something hot, went to bed, and 
to sleep, almost simultaneously. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE CHIEF FEATURES OF WHICH, WILL BE FOUND TO BE AN AUTHENTIC VER- 
SION OF THE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD, AND A MOST EXTRAORDINARY 
CALAMITY THAT BEFEL MR. WINKLE. 

As Mr. Pickwick contemplated a stay of at least two months in Bath, he 
deemed it advisable to take private lodgings for himself and friends for that period ; 
and as a favourable opportunity offered lor their securing, on moderate terms, the 
upper portion of a house in the Royal Crescent, which was larger than they re- 
quired, Mr. and Mrs. Dowler offered to relieve them of a bed-room and sitting- 
room. This proposition was at once accepted, and in three days’ time they were 
all located in their new abode, when Mr. Pickwick began to drink the waters with 
the utmost assiduity. Mr. Pickwick took them systematically. He drank a 
quarter of a pint before breakfast, and then walked up a hill ; and another quarter 
of a pint after breakfast, and then walked down a hill ; and after every fresh 
quarter of a pint, Mr. Pickwick declared, in the most solemn and emphatic terms, 
that he felt a great deal better : whereat his friends were very much delighted, 
though they had not been previously aware that there was anything the matter with 
him. 

The great pump-room is a spacious saloon, ornamented with Corinthian pillars, 
and a music gallery, and a Tompion clock, and a statue of Nash, and a golden in- 
scription, to which all the water-drinkers should attend, for it appeals to them in 
the cause of a deserving charity. There is a large bar with a marble vase, out of 
which the pumper gets the water ; and there are a number of yellow-looking tum- 
blers, out of which the company get it ; and it is a most edifying and satisfactory 
sight to behold the perseverance and gravity with which they swallow it. There 
are baths near at hand, in which a part of the company wash themselves ; and a 
band plays afterwards, to congratulate the remainder on their having done so. 
Tliei e is another pump-room, into which infirm ladies and gentlemen are wheeled, 
in such an astonishing variety of chairs and chaises, that any adventurous indi- 
vidual who goes in with the regular number of toes, is in imminent danger of 
coming out without them ; and there is a third, into which the quiet people go, for 
it is less noisy than either. There is an immensity of promenading, on crutches 
and off, with sticks and without, and a great deal of conversation, and liveliness, 
and pleasantry. 

Every morning, the regular water-drinkers, Mr. Pickwick among the number, 
met each other in the pump-room, took their quarter of a pint, and walked consti- 
tutionally. At the afternoon’s promenade, Lord Mutanhed, and the Honourably 
Mr. Crushton, the Dowager Lady Snuphanuph, Mrs. Colonel Wugsby, and ail the 


314 


The Pickwick Cltil, 


gieat people, and all the morning water-drinkers, met in grand assemblage. After 
this, they walked out, or drove out, or were pushed out in bath chaiis, and met 
one another again. After this, the gentlemen went to the reading-rooms and met 
divisions of the mass. After this, they went home. If it were theatre night, per- 
haps they met at the theatre ; if it were assembly night, they met at the rooms ; 
and if it were neither, they met the next day. A very pleasant routine, with perhaps 
a slight tinge of sameness. 

Mr. Pickwick was sitting up by himself, after a day spent in this manner, making 
entries in his journal : his friends having retired to bed : when he was roused by a 
gentle tap at the room door. 

“Beg your pardon, sir,” said Airs. Craddock, the landlady, peeping in; “but 
did you want anything more, sir 

“ Nothing more, ma’am,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Aly young girl is gone to bed, sir,” said Mrs. Craddock; “and Air. Dowler 
is good enough to say that he’ll sit up for Airs. Dowler, as the party isn’t expected 
to be over till late , so I was thinking if you wanted nothing more, Mr. Pickwick, 
I would go to bed.” 

“ By all means, ma’am,” replied Air. Pickwick. 

“ Wish you good night, sir,” said Airs. Craddock. 

“ Good night, ma’am,” rejoined Air. Pickwick. 

Mrs. Craddock closed the door, and Air. Pickwick resumed his writing. 

In half an hour’s time the entries were concluded. Mr. Pickwick carefully 
rubbed the last page on the blotting-paper, shut up the book, wiped his pen on 
the bottom of the inside of his coat tail, and opened the drawer of the inkstand to 
put it carefully away. There were a couple of sheets of writing-paper, pretty 
closely written over, in the inkstand drawer, and they were folded so, that the 
title, which was in a good round hard, was fully disclosed to him. Seeing from 
this, that it was no private document and as it seemed to relate to Bath, and was 
veiy short : Air. Pickwick unfolded n, lighted his bed-room candle that it might 
burn up well by the time he finished ; and drawing his chair nearer the fire, 'ead 
as follows : 

THE TRUE LEGEND OF PRINCE BLADUD. 

“ Less than two hundred years agone, on one of the public baths in this city, 
there appeared an inscription in honour of its mighty founder, the renowned 
Prince Bladud. That inscription is now erased. 

“ For many hundred years before that time, there had been handed down, from 
age to age, an old legend, that the illustrious Prince being afflicted with leprosy, 
on his return from reaping a rich harvest of knowledge in Athens, shunned the 
court of his royal father, and consorted moodily with husbandmen and pigs. 
Among the herd (so said the legend) was a pig of grave and solemn countenance, 
with whom the Prince had a fellow feeling — for he too was wise — a pig of 
thoughtful and reserved demeanour ; an animal superior to his fellows, whose 
grunt was tenible, and whose bite was sharp. The young Prince sighed deeply 
as he looked upon the countenance of the majestic swine ; he thought of his royal 
father, and his eyes were bedewed with tears. 

“ This sagacious pig was fond of bathing in rich, moist mud. Not in summer, 
.as common pigs do, now, lo cool themselves, and did even in those distant ages 
(which is a proof that the light of civilisation had already begun to dawn, though 
leebly), but in the cold sharp days of winter. His coat was ever so sleek, and his 
complexion so clear, that the Prince resolved to essay the purifying qualities of 
the same water that his friend resorted to. He made the trial. Beneath that 
black mud, bubbled the hot springs of Bath. He washed, and was cured. 


The Mighty Family of Lud. 3 13 

Hastening to his father’s court, he paid his best respects, and returning quickly 
Lather, founded this city, and its famous baths. 

“ He sought the pig with all the ardour of their early friendship — but, alas ! the 
waters had been his death. He had imprudently taken a bath at too high a 
temperature, and the natural philosopher was no more ! He was succeeded by 
Pliny, who also fell a victim to his thirst for knowledge. 

“ This was the legend. Listen to the true one. 

“ A great many centuries since, there flourished, in gieat state, the famous and 
renowned Lud Hudibras, king of Britain. He was a mighty monarch. The 
earth shook when he walked : he was so veiy' stout. His people basked in the 
light of his countenance : it was so red and glowing. He was, indeed, every inch 
a king. And there were a good many inches of him too, for although he was not 
very tall, he was a remarkable size round, and the inches that he wanted in height, 
he made up in circumference. If any degenerate monarch of modern times could 
be in any way compared with him, 1 should say the venerable King Cole would 
be that illustrious potentate. 

“ This good king had a quern, who eighteen years before, had had a son, who 
was called Bladud. He was sent to a preparatoiy seminary in his father’s 
dominions until he was ten years old, and was then dispatched, in charge of a 
trusty messenger, to a finishing school at Athens ; and as there was no extra 
charge for remaining during the holidays, and no notice required previous to the 
removal of a pupil, there he remained for eight long years, at the expiration of 
which time, the king his father sent the lord chamberlain over, to settle the bill, 
and to bring him home : which, the lord chamberlain doing, was received with 
shouts, and pensioned immediately. 

“ When King Lud saw the Prince his son, and found he had gro^vn up such a 
fine young man, he perceived at once what a giand thing it would be to have him 
married without delay, so that his children might be the means of perpetuating 
the glorious race of Lud, down to the veiy latest ages of the world. With this 
view, he sent a special embassy, composed of great noblemen who had nothing 
particular to do, and wanted lucrative employment, to a neighbouring king, and 
demanded his fair daughter in marriage for his son : stating at the same time that 
he was anxious to be on the most affectionate terms with his brother and friend, 
but that if they couldn’t agree in arranging this maniage, he should be under the 
unpleasant necessity of invading his kingdom, and putting his eyes out. To this, 
the other king (who was the weaker of the two) replied, that he was very much 
obliged to his friend and brother for all his goodness and magnanimity, and that 
his daughter was quite ready to be married, whenever Prince Bladuc liked to 
come and fetch her. 

“ This answer no sooner reached Britain, than the whole nation were transported 
with joy. Nothing was heard, on all sides, but the sounds of feasting and revelry, — 
except the chinking of money as it was paid in by the people to the collector of 
the Royal Treasures, to defray the expenses of the happy ceremony. It was upon 
this occasion that King Lud, seated on the top of his throne in full council, rose, 
in the exuberance of his feelings, and commanded the lord chief justice to order 
in the richest wines and the court minstrels : an act of graciousness which ha- 
been, through the ignorance of traditionary historians, attributed to King Cole, 
in those celebrated lines in which his majesty is represented as 

Calling for his pipe, and calline; for his pot. 

And calling for his fiddlers three. 

Which is an obvious injustice to the memory of King Lud. and a dishoncf-t 
exaltation of the virtues of King Cole. 


3i6 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ But, in the midst of all this festivity and rejoicing, there was one individual 
present, who tasted not when the sparkling wines were poured forth, and who 
danced not, when the minstrels played. This was no other than Prince Bladud 
himself, in honour of whose happiness a whole people were at that very moment, 
straining alike their throats and purse-strings. The truth was, that the Prince, 
forgetting the undoubted right of the minister for foreign affairs to fall in love on 
his behalf, had, contrary to every precedent of policy and diplomacy, already fallen 
in love on his own account, and privately coTitracted himself unto the fair daughter 
of a noble Athenian. 

“Here we have a striking example of one of the manifold advantages of 
civilisation and refinement. If the Prince had lived in later days, he might at 
once have mairied the object of his father’s choice, and then set himself seriously 
to work, to relieve himself of the burden which rested heavily upon him. He 
might have endeavoured to break her heart by a systematic course of insult and 
neglect ; or, if the spirit of her sex, and a proud consciousness of her many 
wrongs had upheld her under this ill treatment, he might have sought to take her 
life, and so get rid of her effectually. But neither mode of relief suggested itself 
to Prince Bladud ; so he solicited a private audience, and told his father. 

“It is an old prerogative of kings to govern everything but their passions. 
King Lud flew into a frightful rage, tossed his crowmup to the ceiling, and caught 
it again — for in those days kings kept their crowns on their heads, and not in the 
Tower — stamped the ground, rapped his forehead, wondered why his own flesh 
and blood rebelled against him, and, finally, calling in his guards, ordered the 
Prince away to instant confinement in a lofty turret ; a course of treatment which 
the kings of old very generally pursued towards their sons, when their matrimonial 
inclinations did not happen to point to the same quarter as their own. 

“ When Prince Bladud had been shut up in the lofty turret for the greater part 
of a year, with no better prospect before his bodily eyes than a stone wall, or 
before his mental vision than prolonged imprisonment, he naturally began to 
ruminate on a plan of escape, which, after months of preparation, he managed to 
accomplish ; considerately leaving his dinner knife in the heart af his gaoler, lest 
the poor fellow (who had a family) should be considered privy to his flight, and 
punished accordingly by the infuriated king. 

“ The monarch was frantic at the loss of his son. He knew not on whom to 
vent his grief and wrath, until fortunately bethinking himself of the Lord Cham- 
berlain who had brought him home, he struck off his pension and his head 
together. 

“ Meanwhile, the young Prince, effectually disguised, wandered on foot through 
his father’s dominions, cheered and supported in all his hardships by sweet 
thoughts of the Athenian maid, who was the innocent cause of his weary trials. 
One day he stopped to rest in a country village ; and seeing that there were gay 
dances going forward on the green, and gay faces passing to and fro, ventured to 
inquire of a reveller who stood near him, the reason for this rejoicing. 

“ ‘ Know you not, O stranger,’ was the reply, ‘of the recent proclamation oi 
our gracious king } ’ 

“‘Proclamation! No. Wliat proclamation.?’ rejoined the Prince — for he 
had travelled along tli 2 bye and little-frequented ways, and knew nothing of what 
had passed upon the public roads, such as they were. 

“ ‘Why,’ replied the peasant, ‘ the foreign lady that our Prince wished to wed, 
b married to a foreign noble of her owm countiy; and the king proclaims the iict, 
and a great public festival besides ; for now, of course. Prince Bladud will come 
back and marry the lady his father chose, who they say is as beautiful as the p^n- 
day sun. Youi lu-iltli, sir. God save the King I ’ 


A Copious Flood oj Tears. 


317 


“ Tiie Prince remained to hear no more. He fled from the spot, and plunged 
into the thickest recesses of a neighbouring w'ood. On, on, he wandered, night 
and day : beneath the blazing sun, and the cold pale moon ; through the dry heat 
of noon, and the damp cold of night : in the grey light of morn, and the red glare 
of eve. So heedless was he of time or object, tliat being bound for Athens, he 
wandered as far out of his way as Bath. 

“ There was no city where Bath stands, then. There was no vestige of human 
habitation, or sign of man’s resort, to bear the name ; but there was the same 
noble country, the same broad expanse of hill and dale, the same beautiful channel 
stealing on, far away : the same lofty mountains which, like the troubles of life, 
viewed at a distance, and partially obscured by the bright mist of its morning, 
lose their ruggedness and asperity, and seem all ease and softness. Moved by 
the gentle beauty of the scene, the Prince sank upon the green turf, and bathed 
his swollen feet in his tears. 

“ ‘ Oh ! ’ said the unhappy Bladud, clasping his hands, and mournfully raising 
his eyes towards the sky, ‘ would that my wanderings might end here I Would that 
these grateful tears with which I now mourn hope misplaced, and love despised, 
might flow in peace for ever ! ’ 

“ The wish was heard. It was in the time of the heathen deities, who used 
occasionally to take people at their words, with a promptness, in some cases 
extremely awkward. The ground opened beneath the Prince’s feet ; he sunk into 
the chasm ; and instantaneously it closed upon his head for ever, save where his 
hot tears welled up through the earth, and where they have continued to gush 
forth ever since. 

“It is obseivable that, to this day, large numbers of elderly ladies and gentle- 
men who have been disappointed in procuring partners, and almost as many young 
ones who are anxious to obtain them, repair, annually, to Bath to drink the waters, 
from which they derive much strength and comfort. This is most complimentary 
to the virtue of Prince Bladud’s tears, and strongly conoborative of \he veracity 
of this legend.” 

Mr. Pickwick yawned, several times, when he had airived at the end of this 
little manuscript : carefully refolded, and replaced it in the inkstand drawer ; and 
then, with a countenance expressive of the utmost weariness, lighted his chambet 
candle, and went up stairs to bed. 

He stopped at Mr. Dowler’s door, according to custom, and knocked to say 
good night. 

“ Ah ! ” said Dowler, “ going to bed ? I wish I was. Dismal night. Windy ; 
isn’t it 

“ Very,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Good night.” 

“ Good night.” 

Mr. Pickwick went to his bed-chamber, and Mr. Dowler resumed his seat 
before the fire, in fulfilment of his rash promise to sit up till his wife came home. 

There are few things more worrying than sitting up for somebody, especially if 
that somebody be at a parly. You cannot help thinking hov/ quickly the time 
passes with them, which drags so heavily with you ; and the more you think of 
this, the more your hopes of their speedy arrival decline. Clocks tick so loud, too, 
when you are sitting up alone, and you seem as if you had an under garment of 
cobwebs on. First, something tickles your right knee, and then the same sensation 
irritates your left. You have no sooner changed your position, than it comes 
again in the arm? ; when you hi,'ve fidgeted your limbs into all sorts of odd 
shapes, you have a sudden relapse in the nose, which you rub as if to rub it off~ 
BS there "is no doubt you would, if you could. Eyes, too, are mere personal incoj* 


The Pickwick Club. 


veniences ; and the wick of one candle gets an inch and a half long, while you are 
snuffing the other. Tliese, and various other little nervous annoyances, render 
sitting up for a length of time after eveiy’body else k£is gone to bed, anything 
but a cheerful amusement. 

This was just Mr. Dowler’s opinion, as he sat before the fire, and felt honestly 
indignant with all the mhuinan people at the party who were keeping him up. 
He was not put into better humour either, by the reflection that he had taken it 
into his head, early in the evening, to think he had got an ache there, and so 
stopped at home. At length, after several droppings asleep, and fallings forward 
towards the bars, and catchings backwaid soon enough to prevent being branded 
in the face, Mr. Dowler made up his mind that he would throw himself on the 
bed in the back-room and think — not sleep, of course. 

“ I’m a heavy sleeper,” said Mr. Dowler, as he flung himself on the bed. “ I 
must keep awake. I suppose I shall hear a knock here. Yes. I thought so. I 
can hear the watchman. There he goes. Fainter now though. A little fainter. 
He’s turning the corner. Ah ! ” When Mr. Dowler arrived at this point, he 
turned the corner at which he had been long hesitating, and fell fast asleep. 

Just as the clock stnick three, there was blown into the crescent a sedan-chair 
with Mrs. Dowler inside, borne by one short fat chairman, and one long thin 
one, who had had much ado to keep their bodies perpendicular : to say 
nothing of the chair. But on that high ground, and in the crescent, which the 
wind swept round and round as if it were going to tear the paving stones up, its 
fury was tremendous. They were very glad to set the chair down, and give a good 
round loud double-knock at the street door. 

They waited some time, but nobody came. 

“ Servants is in the arms o’ Porpus, I think,” said the short chairman, warming 
his hands at the attendant link-boy’s torch. 

“I wish he’d give ’em a squeeze and wake ’em,” observed the long one. 

“Knock again, will you, if you please,” cried Mrs. Dowler from the chair. 
“Knock two or three times, if you please.” 

The short man was quite willing to get the job over, as soon as possible ; so he 
stood on the step, and gave four or five most startling double knocks, of eight or 
ten knocks a piece : while the long man went into the road, and looked up at the 
windows for a light. 

Nobody came. It was all as silent and dark as ever. 

“ Dear me !” said Mrs, Dowler. “ You must knock again, if you please.” 

“Their ain’t a bell, is there, ma’am V' said the short chairman. 

“ Yes, there is,” interposed the link-boy, “ I’ve been a ringing at it ever so long.” 

“ It’s only a handle,” said Mrs. Dowler, “ the wire’s broken.” 

“ I wish the servants’ heads wos,” growled the long man. 

“ I must trouble you to knock again, if you please,” said Mrs. Dowler with the 
utmost politeness. 

The short man did knock again several times, without producing the smallest 
effect. The tall man, growing veiy impatient, then relieved him, and kept on 
perpetually knocking double-knocks of two loud knocks each, like an in^^aae 
postman. 

At length Mr. Winkle began to dream that he was at a club, and that the 
memoers being very refractory, the chairman was obliged to hammer the table 
a good deal lo preserve order ; then, he had a confused notion of an auctio.n room 
where there were no bidders, and the auctioneer was buying everything in ; and 
ultimately he began to think it just within the bounds of possibility that somebody 
might be knocking at the street door. To make quite certain, however, he 
remained quiet in bed for ten minutes or so, and listened ; and when he had 


On the IVrong Side of the Door. 315 

counted two or three and thirty knocks, he felt quite satisfied, and gave himsell a 
great deal of credit for Leing so wakeful. 

“ Rap rap — rap rap — rap rap — ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, rap !” went the knocker. 

Jkir. Winkle jumped out of bed, wondering very much what could possibly be 
the matter, and hastily putting on his stockings and slippers, folded his dressing 
gown round him, lighted a flat candle from the rush-light that was burning in the 
fire-place, and hurried down stairs. 

“ Here’s somebody cornin’ at last, ma’am,” said the short chairman. 

“ I wish I wos behind him vith a bradawl,” muttered the long one. 

“ Who’s there ?” cried Mr. Winkle, undoing the chain. 

“ Don’t stop to ask questions, cast-iron head,” replied the long man, with great 
disgust, taking it for.gianted that the inquirer was a footman; “but open the 
door.” 

“ Come, look sharp, timber eye-lids,” added the other encouragingly. 

Mr. Winkle, being half asleep, obeyed the command mechanically, opened the 
door a little, and peeped out. The first thing he saw, was the red glare of the 
link -boy’s torch. Startled by the sudden fear that the house might be on fire, he 
hastily threw the door wide open, and holding the candle above his head, stared 
eagerly before him, not quite certain whether what he saw was a sedan-chair or a 
fire engine. At this instant there came a violent gust of wind ; the light was 
blown out ; Mr. Winkle felt himself inesistibly impelled on to the steps ; and the 
door blew to, with a loud crash. 

“ Well, young man, now you have done it !” said the short chairman. 

Mr. Winkle, catching sight of a lady’s face at the window of the sedan, turned 
hastily round, plied the knocker ^vith all his might and main, and called frantically 
upon the chairman to take the chair away again. 

“ Take it away, take it away,” cried Mr. Winkle. “ Here’s somebody coming 
out of another house ; put me into the chair. Hide me ! Do something with me !” 

All this time he was shivering with cold ; and every time he raised his hand to 
the knocker, the wind took the dressing gown in a most unpleasant manner. 

“ Ihe people are coming down the Crescent now. There are ladies with ’em ; 
cover me up with something. Stand before me !” roared Mr. Winkle. But the 
chairmen were too much exhausted with laughing to afford him the slightest 
assistance, and the ladies were every moment approaching nearer and nearer. 

Mr. Winkle gave a last hopeless knock ; the ladies were only a few doors off. 
He threw away the extinguished candle, which, all this time, he had held above his 
head, and fairly bolted into the sedan-chair where Mrs. Dowler was. 

Now, Mrs. Craddock had heard the knocking and the voices at last ; and, only 
waiting to put something smarter on her head than her night-cap, ran down into the 
front drawing-room to make sure that it was the right party. Throwing up the 
window-sash as Mr. Winkle was rushing into the chair, she no sooner caught 
sight of what was going forward below, than she raised a vehement and dismal 
shriek, and implored Mr. Dowler to get up directly, for his wife was running 
away with another gentleman. 

Upon this, Mr. Dowler bounced off the bed as abruptly as an India-rubber ball, 
and rushing into the front room, anived at one window just as ]\Ir. Pickwick 
threw up the other : when the first object that met the gaze o.^ both, was Mr. 
Winkle bolting into the sedan-chair. 

“ Watchman,” shouted Dowler furiously ; “ stop him — hold him — keep him 
tight — shut him in, till I come down. I’ll cut his throat — give me a knife — from 
ear to ear, Mrs. Craddock — I will !” And breaking from the shrieking landlady, 
and from Mr. Pickwick, the indignant husbrnd seized a small supper-lcnile, and 

tore into the street. 


$10 


The Pickwick Club. 


But Mr. Winkle didn’t wait for him. He no sooner heard the horrible threat 
of the valorous Dowlet , than he bounced out of the sedan, quite as quickly as he 
had bounced in, and throwing off his slippers into the road, took to his heels and 
tore round the Crescent, hotly pursued by Dowler and the watchman. He kept 
ahead ; the door was open as he came round the second time ; he rushed in, 
slammed it in Dowler’s face, mounted to his bed-room, locked the door, piled a 
washhand-stand, chest of drawers, and table against it, and packed up a few 
necessaries ready for flight with the first ray of morning. 

Dowler came up to the outside of the door ; avowed, through the key-hole, his 
stedfast determination of cutting Mr. Winkle’s throat next day ; and, after a great 
confusion of voices in the drawing-room, amidst which that of Mr. Pickwick was 
distinctly heard endeavouring to make peace, the inmates dispersed to their several 
bed-chambers, and all was quiet once more. 

It is not unlikely that the inquiry may be made, where Mr. Weller was, all tliis 
time ? We will state where he was, in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

HONORABLY ACCOUNTS FOR MR. WELLER’S ABSENCE, BY DESCRIBING A 
SOIREE TO WHICH HE WAS INVITED AND WENT; ALSO RELATES HOW 
HE WAS ENTRUSTED BY MR. PICKWICK WITH A PRIVATE MISSION OF 
DELICACY AND IMPORTANCE. 

“ Mr. Weller,” said Mre. Craddock, upon the morning of this very eventful 
day, “ here ’s a letter for you.” 

“Weiy odd that,” said Sam, “I’m afeerd there must be somethin’ the 
matter, for I don’t recollect any gen’lm’n in my circle of acquaintance as is capable 
o’ writin’ one.” 

“ Perhaps something uncommon has taken place,” observed Mrs. Craddock. 

“ It must be somethin’ wery uncommon indeed, as could produce a letter out 
o’ any friend o’ mine,” replied Sam, shaking his head dubiously; “nothin’ less 
than a nat’ral conwulsion, as the young gen’lm’n observed ven he wos took with 
fits. It can’t be from the gov’ner,” said Sam, looking at the direction. “ He 
always prints, I know, ’cos he learnt writin’ from the large bills in the bookin’ 
offices. It’s a wery strange thing now, where this here letter can ha’ come 
from.” 

As Sam said this, he did what a great many people do when they are uncertain 
about the writer of a note, — looked at the seal, and then at the front, and then 
at the back, and then at the sides, and then at the superscription ; and, as a last 
resource, thought perhaps he might as well look at the inside, and try to find out 
from that. 

“It’s wrote on gilt-edged paper,” said Sam, as he unfolded it, “and sealed 
in bronze vax vith the top of a door-key. Now for it.” And, with a very grave 
face, Mr. Weller slowly read as follows : 

“ A select company of the Bath footmen presents their compliments to Mr. 
Weller, and requests the pleasure of his company this evening, to a friendly 
swarry, consisting of a boiled leg of mutton with the usual trimmings, '''he 
swany to be on table at half-past nine o’clock punctually.” 

This was inclosed in another note, which ran thus — 


Drawbacks on being a Public Character, 


32i 


Mr. John Smauker, the gentleman who had the pleasure of meeting Mr. 
Weller at the house of their mutual acquaintance, Mr. Bantam, a few days since, 
begs to enclose Mr. Weller the herewith invitation. If Mr. Weller will call on 
Mr. Jolni Smauker at nine o’clock, Mr. John Smauker will have the pleasure of 

introducing Mr. Weller. t o » 

(Signed) “John Smauker.” 

The envelope was directed to blank Weller, Esq., at Mr. Pickwick’s ; and in 
a parenthesis, in the left hand corner, were the words “ airy beU,” as an instruction 
to the bearer. 

“ Veil,” said Sam, “ this is cornin’ it rayther powerful, this is. I never heerd a 
biled leg o’ mutton called a swariy afore. I wonder wot they ’d call a roast one.” 

However, without waiting to debate the point, Sam at once betook himself 
into the presence of Mr. Pickwick, and requested leave of absence for that evening, 
which was readily granted. With this permission, and the street-door key, Sam 
W^eller issued forth a little before the appointed time, and strolled leisurely 
towards Queen Square, which he no sooner gained than he had the satisfaction 
of beholding Mr. John Smauker leaning his powdered head against a lamp post 
at a short distance off, smoking a cigar through an amber tube. 

“How do you do, Mr. Weller.?” said Mr. John Smauker, raising his hat 
gracefully with one hand, while he gently waved the other in a condescending 
manner. “ How do you do, sir .? ” 

“ Why, reasonably conwalessent,” replied Sam. “ How do you find yourselx, 
my dear feller .? ” 

“ Only so so,” said Mr. John Smauker. 

“Ah, you’ve been a workin’ too hard,” obseiwed Sana. “ I was fearful you 
would ; it won’t do, you know ; you must not give way to that ’ere uncom- 
promisin’ spirit o’ your’n.” 

“It’s not so much that, Mr. Weller,” replied Mr. John Smauker, “as bad 
wine ; I ’m afraid I ’ve been dissipating.” 

“ Oh ! that ’s it, is it } ” said Sam ; “ that ’s a wery bad complaint, that.” 

“ And yet the temptation, you see, Mr. Weller,” observed Mr. John Smauker. 

“ Ah, to be sure,” said Sam. 

“ Plunged into the very vortex of society, you know, Mr. Weller,” said Mr. 
John Smauker with a sigh. • 

“ Dreadful indeed ! ” rejoined Sam. 

“But it’s always the way,” said Mr. John Smauker; “ if your destiny leads 
you into public life, and public station, you must expect to be subjected to 
temptations which other people is free from, Mr. Weller.” 

“ Precisely what my uncle said, ven he vent into the public line,” remarked 
Sam, “ and wery right the old gen’lm’n wos, for he drank hisself to death in 
somethin’ less than a quarter.” 

Mr. John Smauker looked deeply indignant at any parallel being drawn between 
himself and the deceased gentleman in question ; but as Sam’s face was in the 
most immoveable state of calmness, he thought better of it, and looked afiable 
igain. 

“ Perhaps we had better be walking,” said Mr. Smauker, consulting a copper 
time-piece which dwelt at the bottom of a deep watch-pocket, and was raised to 
the surface by means of a black string, with a copper key at the other end. 

“P’raps we had,” replied Sam, “or they’ll overdo the swarry, and that’ll 
spile it.” 

“ Have you drank the waters, Mr. Weller?” inquired his companion, as they 
walked towards High Street. 

“ Once,” replied Sain. 




The Pickwick Club. 


What did you think of ’em, sir ? ” 

“ I thought they wos particklery unpleasant,” replied Sam. 

** Ah,” said Mr. John Smauker, “ you disliked the killibeate taste, perhaps ? ” 

I don’t know much about that ’ere,” said Sam. “I thought they’d a wery 
strong flavom o’ warm flat irons.” 

“ That is the killibeate, Mr. Weller,” observed Mr. John Smauker, con- 
temptuously. 

“ Well, if it is, it ’s a wery inexpressive word, that’s all,” said Sam. “ It may 
be, but I ain’t much in the chimical line myself, so I can’t say.” And here, to 
the great horror of Mr. John Smauker, Sam Weller began to whistle. 

“ I beg your pardon. Air. Weller,” said Air. John Smauker, agonized at the 
exceedingly ungenteel sound, “ Will you take my arm } ” 

“ Thankee, you ’re wery good, but I won’t deprive you of it,” replied Sam. 
“ I ’ve rayther a way o’ puttin’ my hands in my pockets, if it ’s all the same to 
you.” As Sam said this, he suited the action to the word, and whistled far 
louder than before. 

“ This way,” said his new friend, apparently much relieved as they turned down 
a bye street ; “we shall soon be there.” 

“ Shall we ? ” said Sam, quite unmoved by the announcement of his close 
vicinity to the select footmen of Bath. 

“ Yes,” said Mr. John Smauker. “ Don’t be alarmed. Air. Weller.” 

“ Oh no,” said Sam. 

“You’ll see some very handsome uniforms, Air. Weller,” continued Air. John 
Smauker; “and perhaps you’ll find some of the gentlemen rather high at first, 
you know, but they ’ll soon come round.” 

“ That ’s wery kind on ’em,” replied Sam. 

“And you know,” resumed Air. John Smauker, with an air of sublime 
protection ; “you know, as you’re a stranger, perhaps they’ll be rather hard upon 
you at first.” 

“ They won’t be weiy cnael, though, will they } ” inquired Sam. 

“ No, no,” replied Mr. John Smauker, pulling forth the fox’s head, and taking a 
gentlemanly pinch. “There are some funny dogs among us, and they will have 
their joke, you know; but you mustn’t mind ’em, you mustn’t mind ’em.” 

“ I’lr tiy and bear up agin such a reg’lar knock down o’ talent,” replied Sam. 

“That’s right,” said Air. John Smauker, putting up the fox’s head, and elevating 
his own ; “ I’U stand by you.” 

By this time they had reached a small green giocer’s shop, which Air. John 
Smauker entered, followed by Sam : who, the moment he got behind him, 
relapsed into a seiies of the very broadest and most unmitigated grins, and 
manifested other demonstrations of being in a highly enviable state of inward 
merriment. 

Crossing the greengrocer’s shop, and putting their hats on the stairs in the little 
passage behind it, they walked into a small parlour; and here the full splendour of 
the scene burst upon Air. Weller’s view, 

A couple of tables were put together in the middle of the parlour, covered with 
three or four cloths of different ages and dates of washing, arranged to look as 
much like one as the circumstances of the case would allow. Upon these were 
laid knives and forks for six or eight people. Some of the knife handles were 
g^een, others red, and a few yellow ; and as all the forks were black, tlie combina- 
tion of colours was exceedingly striking. Plates for a corresponding number of 
guests were warming behind the fender ; and the guests themselves were wanning 
before it; the chief and most important of whom appeared to be a stoutish 
gentleman in a bright crimson coat with long tails, vividly red breeches, and a 


Mr. IVdler is Presented. 


m 

cocked hat, who was standing with his back to the fire, and had apparently just 
entered, for besides retaining his cocked hat cn his head, he carried in his baud a 
high stick, such as gentlemen of his profession usually elevate in a sloping position 
over the roofs of carriages. 

“ Smauker, my lad, your fin,” said the gentleman with the cocked hat. 

Mr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right hand little finger into that 
of the gentleman with the cocked hat, and said he was charmed to see him looking 
so well. 

“ Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming,” said the man with the 
cocked hat, “and it’s a wonder, too. I’ve been following our old woman about, 
two hours a-day, for the last fortnight ; and if a constant contemplation of the 
manner in which she hooks-and-eyes that infernal lavender coloured old gown of 
her’s behind, isn’t enough to throw any body into a low state of despondency for 
life, stop my quarter’s salary.” 

At this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily ; and one gentleman in a 
yellow waistcoat, with a coach trimming border, whispered a neighbour in green 
foil smalls, that Tuckle was in spirits to-night. 

“ By the bye,” said Mr. Tuckle, “ Smauker, my boy, you ” The 

remainder of the sentence was forwarded into Mr. John Smauker’s ear, by whisper. 

“ Oh, dear me, I quite forgot,” said Mr. John Smauker. “ Gentlemen, my friend 
Mr. Weller.” 

“ Sorry to keep the fire off you, Weller,” said Mr. Tuclde, with a familiar nod. 
“Hope you’re not cold, Weller.” 

“ Not by no means. Blazes,” replied Sam. “ It ’ud be a wery chilly subject as 
felt cold wen you stood opposit. You’d save coals if they put you behind the fen- 
der in the waitin’ room at a public office, you would.” 

As this retort appeared to convey rather a personal allusion to Mr. Tuckle’s 
crimson livery, that gentleman* looked majestic for a few seconds, but gradually 
edging away from the fire, broke into a forced smile, and said it wasn’t bad. 

“ Wery much obliged for your good opinion, sir,” replied Sam. “We shall 
get on by degrees, I des-say. We’ll try a better one, bye-and-bye.” 

At this point the conversation was interrapted by the arrival of a gentleman in 
orange-coloured plush, accompanied by another selection in purple cloth, \vith 
a great extent of stocking. The new comers having been welcomed by the old 
ones, Mr. Tuclde put the question that suppei be ordered in, which was carried 
unanimously. 

The greengrocer and his Avife then arranged upon the table a boiled leg of mutton, 
hot, with caper sauce, turnips, and potatoes. Mr. Tuclde took the chair, and was 
supported at the other end of the board by the gentleman in orange plush. The 
greengrocer put on a pair of wash-leather gloves to hand the plates with, and 
stationed himself behind Mr. Tuckle’s chair. 

“Hari-is,” said Mr. Tuclde, in a commanding tone. 

“ Sir,” said the greengrocer. 

“ Have you got your gloves on ? ” 

“ Ves, sir.” 

“ Then take the kiver, off.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

The gieengrocer did as he was told, with a show of ^eat humility, and 
obsequiously handed Mr. Tuclde the carving knife ; in doing which, he acci- 
dentally gaped. , , . , 

“ What do you mean by that, sir ? ” said Mr. Tuckle, with great asperity. 

“ 1 beg your pardon, sir,” replied the crest-fallen greengrocer, “T didn’t roetin 
to do It. sir; I was up very late last night, sir.” 


524 


The Pickwick Club. 


“I tell you what my opinion of you is, Harris,” said Mr. Tuclde with a most 
impressive air, “ you’re a wulgar beast.” 

“I hope, gentlemen,” Said Harris, “that you won’t be severe with me, gentle- 
men. I’m very much obliged to you indeed, gentlemen, for your patronage, and 
also for your recommendations, gentlemen, whenever additional assistance in 
waiting is required. I hope, gentlemen, I give satisfaction.” 

“ No, you don’t sir,” said Mr. Tuckle. “ Very far from it, sir.” 

“We consider you an inattentive reskel,” said the gentleman in the orange 
plush. 

“ And alow thief,” added the gentleman in the gi-een-foil smalls. 

“ And an unreclaimable blaygaird,” added the gentleman in purple. 

The poor greengiocer bowed very humbly while these little epithets were 
bestowed upon him, in the true spirit of the very smallest tyranny ; and when every 
body had said something to show his superiority, Mr. Tuckle proceeded to carve 
the leg of mutton, and to help the company. 

This important business of the evening had hardly commenced, when the door 
was thrown briskly open, and another gentleman in a light-blue suit, and leaden 
buttons, made his appearance. 

“Against the rules,” said Mr. Tuckle. “Too late, too late.” 

“No, no ; positively I couldn’t help it,” said the gentleman in blue. “ I appeal 
to the company. An affair of gallantry now, an appointment at the theaytei.” 

“Oh, that indeed,” said the gentleman in the orange plush. 

“ Yes ; raly now, honour bright,” said the man in blue. “ I made a proniese 
to fetch our youngest daughter at half-past ten, and she is such an uncauminly fine 
gal, that I raly hadn’t the art to disappint her. No offence to the present company, 
sir, but a pettreut, sir, a petticut, sir, is irrevokeable.” 

“ I begin to suspect there’s something in that quarter,” said Tuckle, as the new 
comer took his seat next Sam. “ I’ve remarked, once or twdee, that she leans 
very heavy on your shoulder when she gets in and out of the carriage.” 

“ Oh raly, raly, Tuckle, you shouldn’t,” said the man in blue. “ It’s not fair. 
I may have said to one or two friends that she was a very divine creechure, and had 
refused one or two offers without any hobvus cause, but — no, no, no, indeed, 
Tuckle — before strangers, too— it’s not right — you shouldn’t. Delicacy, my dear 
friend, delicacy ! ” And the man in blue, pulling up his neckerchief, and adjusting 
his coat cuffs, nodded and frowned as if there were more behind, which he could 
say if he liked, but was bound in honour to suppress. 

The man in blue being a light-haired, stiff-necked, free and easy sort of foot- 
man, with a swaggering air and pert face, had attracted Mr. Weller’s especial 
attention at first, but when he began to come out in this way, Sam I'elt more than 
ever disposed to cultivate his acquaintance ; so he launched himself into the con- 
versation at once, with characteristic independence. 

“ Y'our health, sir,” said Sam. “ I like your conwersation much. I think it’s 
wer)- pretty.” 

At this the man in blue smiled, as if it were a compliment he w^as well used to ; 
but looked approvingly on Sam at the same time, and said he hoped he should be 
better acquainted with him, for without any fiattery at all he seemed to have the 
makings of a very nice fellow about him, and to be just the man after his owm heart. 

“ You’re wery good, sir,” said Sam. “ What a lucky feller you are ! ” 

“ How do you mean } ” inquired the gentleman in blue. 

“That ’ere young lady,” replied Sam. “She knows w’ot’s w^ot, she does. Ah ! 
I see.” Mr. Weller closed one eye, and shook his head from side to side, in 
a mfinner which was highly gratifying to the personal vanity of the gentleman 

In blue. 


Virtues of a Fine Uniform. 


“I’m afraid you’re a cunning fellow, Mr. Weller,” said that individual. 

“ No, no,” said Sam. “I leave all that ’ere to you. It’s a great deal more in 
your way than mine, as the gen’l’m’n on the right side o’ the garden vail said to 
the man on the wrong ’un, ven the mad bull wos a cornin’ up the lane.” 

“Well, well, Mr. Weller,” said the gentleman in blue, “I think she has re- 
marked my air and manner, Mr. Weller.” 

“ I should think she couldn’t wery well be off o’ that,” said Sam. 

“ Have you any little thing of that kind in hand, sir } ” inquired the favoured 
gentleman in blue, drawing a toothpick from his waistcoat pocket. 

“ Not exactly,” said Sam. “ There’s no daughters at my place, else o’ course 
I should ha’ made up to vun on ’em. As it is, I don’t think I can do with any 
thin’ under a female markis. I might take up with a young ooman o’ large pro- 
perty as hadn’t a title, if she made wery fierce love to me. Not else.” 

“ Of course not, Mr. Weller,” said the gentleman in blue, “ one can’t be 
troubled, you know ; and we know, Mr. Weller — we, who are men of the world 
— that a good uniform must work its way with the women, sooner or later. In 
fact, that’s the only thing, between you and me, that makes the service worth 
entering into.” 

“Just so,” said Sam. “That’s it, o’ course.” 

When this confidential dialogue had gone thus far, glasses were placed round, 
and every gentleman ordered what he liked best, before the public-house shut up. 
The gentleman in blue, and the man in orange, who were the chief exquisites of 
the party, ordered “ cold srub and water,” but with the others, gin and water, 
sweet, appeared to be the favourite beverage. Sam called the greengrocer a 
“ desp’rate willin,” and ordered a large bowl of punch : two circumstances which 
seemed to raise him very much in the opinion of the selections. 

“ Gentleman,” said the man in blue, with an air of the most consummate 
dandyism, “ I’ll give you the ladies ; come.” 

“ Hear, hear! ” said Sam, “The young mississes.” 

Here there was a loud cry of “ Order,” and Mr. John Smauker, as the gentle- 
man who had introduced Mr. Weller into that company, begged to inform him 
that the word he had just made use of, was unparliamentary. 

“Which word was that ’ere, sir.? ” inquired Sam. 

“Mississes, sir,” replied Mr. John Smauker, with an alarming frown. “We 
don’t recognise such distinctions here.” 

“ Oh, weiy good,” said Sam ; “ then I’ll amend the obserwation, and call ’em 
the dear creeturs, if Blazes vill allow me.” 

Some doubt appeared to exist in the mind of the gentleman in the green-foil 
smalls, whether the chairman could be legally appealed to, as “ Blazes,” but as 
the company seemed more disposed to stand upon their own rights than his, the 
question was not raised. The man with the coclced hat, breathed short, and 
looked long at Sam, but apparently thought it as well to say nothing, in case he 
should get the worst of it. 

After a short silence, a gentleman in an embroidered coat reaching down to his 
heels, and a waistcoat of the same which kept one half of his legs wann, stiired 
his gin and water with great energy, and putting himself upon his feet, all at 
once, by a violent effort, said he was desirous of offering a few remarks to the 
company : whereupon the person in the cocked hat, had no doubt that the com- 
pany would be very happy to hear any remarks that the man in the long coit 
might wish to offer. 

“I feel a great delicacy, gentleman, in coming for’ard,” said the man in the 
long coat, “ having the misforchune to be a coachman, and being only admitted 
as a honorary member of these agreeable swarrys, but I do feel myself bound, 


326 


The Pickwick Club, 


gentlemen — drove into a comer, if I may use the expression — to make known an 
afilicting circumstance which has come to my knowledge ; which has happened I 
may say within the soap of my ever)' day contemplation. Gentlemen, our triend 
Wr. Whifiers (everybody looked at the individual in orange), our frien i Mr. 
Whifiers has resigned.” 

Universal astonishment fell upon the hearers. Each gentleman looked in his 
neighbour’s face, and then transfened his glance to the upstanding coachman. 

“You may well be sapparised, gentlemen,” said the coachman. “ I will not 
wenchure to state the reasons of this irrepairabel loss to the service, but I will 
beg Mr. Whiffers to state them himself, for the improvement and imitation of his 
admiring friends.” 

The suggestion being loudly approved of, Mr. Whiffers explained. He said he 
certainly could have wished to have continued to hold the appointment he had 
just resigned. The uniform was extremely rich and expensive, the females of the 
family w'as most agr eeable, and the duties of the situation was not, he was bound 
to say, too heavy ; the principal service that was required of him, being, that he 
should look out of the hall window as much as possible, in company with another 
gentleman, who had also resigned. He could have wished to have spared that 
company the painful and disgusting detail on which he was about to enter, but as 
the explanation had been demanded of him, he had no alternative but to state, 
boldly and distinctly, that he had been required to eat cold meat. 

It is impossible to conceive the disgust which this avowal awakened in the 
bosoms of the hearers. Loud cries of “ Shame ! ” mingled with groans and 
hisses, prevailed for a quarter of an hour. 

Mr. Whiffers then added that he feared a portion of this outrage might be 
traced to his own forbearing and accommodating disposition. He had a distinct 
recollection of having once consented to eat salt butter, and he had, moreover, on 
an occasion of sudden sickness in the house, so far forgotten himself as to carry a 
coal scuttle up to the second floor. He trusted he had not lower ed himself in the 
good opinion of his friends by this ffank confession of his faults ; and he hoped 
the promptness with which he had resented the last unmanly outrage on his 
feelings, to which he had referred, would reinstate him in their good opinion, 
if he had. 

Mr. Wnriffers’ address was responded to, with a shout of admiration, and the 
health of the interesting martyr was drunk in a most enthusiastic manner; for 
this, the mar tjT returned thanks, and proposed their visitor, Mr. Weller ; a gentle- 
man whom he had not the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with, but whc 
was the Irierid of Mr. John Smauker, which was a sufficient letter of recommen- 
dation to any society of gentlemen whatever, or wherever. On this account, he 
should have been disposed to have given Mr. Weller’s health with all the honours, 
if his fr iends had been drinking wine ; but as they were taking spirits by way of a 
change, and as it might be inconvenient to empty a tumbler at every toast, he 
should propose that the honours be understood. 

At the conclusion of this speech, everybody took a sip in honour of Sam ; and 
Sam having ladled out, and drunk, two full glasses of punch in honour of himself, 
returned thanks in a neat speech. 

“ Wery much obliged to you, old fellers,” said Sam, ladling away at the punch 
in the most unembarrassed manner possible, “ for this here comidiment ; wich, 
cornin’ from sich a quarter, is wery' overx'elmin’. I’ve heerd a good deal on you 
as a body, but I will say, that I never thought you was sich uncommon nice men 
as I find you air. I only hope you’ll take care o’ yourselves, and not compromise 
nothin’ o’ your dignity, which is a wery charmin’ thing to see, when one’s out a 
Walkin’, and has always made me wery happy to look at, ever since I was a boy 


Mr. Winkle Missing. 




about half as high as the brass-headed stick o’ my weiy respectable friend, Blazes, 
there. As to the wictim of oppression in the suit o’ brimstone, all I can say ot 
him, is, that I hope he’ll get jist as good a berth as he deserves : in vich case it’s 
wery little cold swany as ever he’ll be troubled with agin.” 

Here Sam sat down with a pleasant smile, and his speech having been voci- 
ferously applauded, the company broke up. 

“ Wy, you don’t mean to say you’re a goin’, old feller said Sam Weller to 
his friend Mr. John Smauker. 

“ I must indeed,” said Mr. Smauker ; “I promised Bantam.” 

“ Oh, wery well,” said Sam ; “ that’s another thing. F’raps he'd resign if you 
disappinted him. You ain’t a goin’, Bkzes 

“ Yes, I am,” said the man with the cocked hat. 

“ Wot, and leave three quarters of a bowl of punch behind you !” said Sam ; 
” nonsense, set down agin.” 

Mr. Tuckle was not proof against this invitation. He laid aside the cocked hat 
and stick which he had just taken up, and said he would have one glass, for good 
fellowship’s sake. 

As the gentleman in blue went home the same way as Mr. Tuckle, he was pre- 
vailed upon to stop too. When the punch was about half gone, Sam ordered in 
some oysters from the gieengrocer’s shop ; and the effect of both was so extremely 
exhilarating, that Mr. Tuckle, dressed out with the cocked hat and stick, danced 
the frog hornpipe among the shells on the table : while the gentleman in blue 
played an accompaniment upon an ingenious musical instrument formed of a hair 
comb and a curl-paper. At last, when the punch was all gone, and the night 
nearly so, they sallied forth to see each other home. !Mr. Tuckle no sooner got 
into the open air, than he was seized with a sudden desire to lie on the curb-stone ; 
Sam thought it would be a pity to contradict him, and so let him have his own 
way. As the cocked hat would have been spoilt if left there, Sam very con- 
siderately flattened it down on the head of the gentleman in blue, and putting the 
big stick in his hand, propped him up against his own street-door, rang the bell, 
and walked quietly home. 

At a much earlier hour next morning than his usual time of rising, Mr. Pick- 
wick walked down stairs completely dressed, and rang the bell. 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller appeared in reply to the sum- 
mons, “ shut the door.” 

Mr. Weller did so. 

“ There was an unfortunate occurrence here, last night, Sam,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick, “which gave Mr. Winkle some cause, to apprehend violence from Mr. 
Dowler.” 

“ So I’ve heerd from the old lady down stairs, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ And I’m sorry to say, Sam,” continued Mr. Pickwick, with a most perplexed 
countenance, “ that in dread of this violence, Mr. Winlde has gone away.” 

“Goneavay!” said Sam. 

“ Left the house early this morning, without the slightest previous communica- 
tion with me,” replied Mr. Pick\nck. “ And is gone, I know not where.” 

“ He should ha’ stopped and fought it out, sir,” replied Sam, contemptuously. 
“ It wouldn’t take much to settle that ’ere Dowler, sir.” 

“ Well, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwdck, “ I may have my doubts of his great braveiy 
and determination, also. But however that may be, Mr. Winkle is gone. He 
must be found, Sam. Found and brought back to me.” 

“ And s’pose he won’t come back, sir said Sam. 

“ He must be made, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Who’s to do it, sir ? ” inquued Sam with a smile. 


328 


The Pickwick Club, 


** You,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Wery good, sir.” 

With these words Mr. Weller left the room, and immediately afterwards was 
heard to shut the street door. In two hours’ time he returned with as much cool- 
ness as if he had been despatched on the most ordinary message possible, and 
brought the information that an individual, in eveiy respect answering Mr. 
Winkle’s aescription, had gone over to Bristol that morning, by the branch coach 
from the Royal Hotel. 

“ Sam.” said Mr. Pickwick, grasping his hand, “you’re a capital fellow ; an 
invaluable fellow. You must follow him, Sam.” 

“ Cert’nly, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ The instant you discover him, write to me immediately, Sam,” said Mr. Pick- 
wick. “If he attempts to run away from you, knock him down, or lock him up. 
You have my full authority, Sam.” 

“I’ll be wery careful, sir,” rejoined Sam. 

“You’ll tell him,” said Mr. Pickwick, “that I am highly excited, highly dis- 
pleased, and naturally indignant, at the very extraordinary course he has thought 
proper to pursue.” 

“I will, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ You’ll tell him,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ that if he does not come back to this 
very house, with you, he will come back with me, for I will come and fetch 
him.” 

“ I’ll mention that ’ere, sir,” rejoined Sam. 

“You think you can find him, Sam ?” said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly in 
his face. 

“ Oh, I’ll find him if he’s any vere,” rejoined Sam, wdth great confidence. 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Then the sooner you go the better.” 

With these instmctions, Mr. Pickwick placed a sum of money in the hands of 
his faithful servitor, and ordered hinx to start for Bristol immediately, in pursuit of 
the fugitive. 

Sam put a few necessaries in a carpet bag, and was ready for starting. He 
stopped when he had got to the end of the passage, and walking quietly back, 
thrust his head in at the parlour door. 

“ Sir,” whispered Sam. 

“Well, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I fully understands my instructions, do I, sir?” inquired Sam. 

“ I hope so,” said Mr. Pickwdck. 

“ It’s reg’larly understood about the knockin’ down, is it sir ?” inquired Sam. 

“ Perfectly,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ Thoroughly, Do W'hat you tliink neces- 
sary. You have my orders.” 

Sam gave a nod of intelligence, and withdrawing his head from the door, set 
forth on his pilgrimage with a light heart. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

HOW MR. WINKLE, WHEN HE STEPPED OUT OF THE FRYING-PAN, WALKED 
GENTLY AND COMFORTABLY INTO THE FIRE. 

The ill-starred gentleman who had been the unfortunate cause of the unusual 
noise and distvubance which alarmed the inhabitants of the Royal Crescent in 
manner and form already described, after passing a night of gieat confusion and 


Discovery of a Medical Gentleman. 

anxiety, left the roof beneath which his friends still slumbered, bound he knew not 
whither. The excellent and considerate feelings which prompted Mr. Winale to 
take this step can never be too highly appreciated or too warmly extolled. “ . f,” 
reasoned Mr. Winkle with himself, “if this Dowler attempts (as I have no doubt 
he will) to cairy into execution his threat of personal violence against myselt, it 
will be incumbent on me to call him out. He has a wife ; that wife is attached 
to, and dependent on him. Heavens ! If I should kill him in the blindness of 
rny wrath, what would be my feelings ever aftemards ! ” This painful considera- 
tion operated so powerfully on the feelings of the humane young man, as to cause 
his knees to knock together, and his countenance to exhibit alarming manifesta- 
tions of inward emotion. Impelled by such reflections, he gi-asped his carpet-bag, 
and creeping stealthily down stairs, shut the detestable street-door with as little 
noise as possible, and walked off. Bending his steps towards the Royal Hotel, 
he found a coach on the point of starting for Bristol, and, thinking Bristol as 
good a place for his purpose as any other he could go to, he mounted the box, 
and reached his place of destination in such time as the pair of horses, who went 
the whole stage and back again twice a day or more, could be reasonably supposed 
to anive there. 

He took up his quarters at The Bush, and, designing to postpone any commu- 
nication by letter with Mr. Pickwick until it was probable that Mr. Dowler’s 
wrath might have in some degree evaporated, walked forth to view the city, which 
stmck him as being a shade more dirty than any place he had ever seen. Having 
inspected the docks and shipping, and viewed the cathedral, he inquired his* way 
to Clifton, and being directed thither, took the route which was pointed out to 
him. But, as the pavements of Bristol are not the widest or cleanest upon earth, 
so its sti'eets are not altogether the straightest or least intricate ; Mr. Winkle 
being greatly puzzled by their manifold windings and twistings, looked about him 
for a decent shop in which he could apply afresh, for counsel and instruction. 

His eye fell upon a newly-painted tenement which had been recently converted 
into something between a shop and a private-house, and which a red lamp, pro- 
jecting over the fan-light of the street-door, would have sufficiently announced as 
the residence of a medical practitioner, even if the word “ Surger)^ ” had not been 
inscribed in golden characters on a wainscot ground, above the window of what, 
in times bygone, had been the front parlour. Thinking this an eligible place 
wherein to make his inquiries, Mr. Winkle stepped into the little shop where the 
gilt-labelled drawers and bottles were ; and finding nobody there, knocked with 
a half-crown on the counter, to attract the attention of anybody who might happen 
to be in the back parlour, which he judged to be the innermost and peculiar 
sanctum of the establishment, from the repetition of the word surgery on the door 
— painted in white letters this time, by way of taking off the monotony. 

At the first knock, a sound, as of persons fencing with fire-irons, which had 
until now been very audible, suddenly ceased ; at the second, a studious-look- 
ing young gentleman in green spectacles, with a very large book in his hand, 
glided quietly into the shop, and stepping behind the counter, requested to know 
the visitor’s pleasure. 

“I am sorry to trouble you, sir,” said Mr. Winkle, “but will you have the 
goodness to direct me to ” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” roared the studious young gentleman, throwing the large book 
up into the air, and catching it with great dexterity at the very moment when it 
threatened to smash to atoms all the bottles on the counter. “ Here’s a start ! 

There was, without doubt ; for Mr. Winkle was so very much astonished at the 
extraordinary behaviour of the medical gentleman, that he involuntarily reti eated 
towards the door, and looked very much disturbed at his strange reception. 


330 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Wliat, don’t you know me ? ” said the medical gentleman. 

Mr. Winkle murmured, in reply, that he had not that pleasure. 

“Why, then,” said the medical gentleman, “there are hopes for me yet; 1 
may attend half the old women in Bristol if I’ve decent luck. Get out, you mouldy 
old villain, get out ! ” With this adjuration, which was addressed to the large 
book, the medical gentleman kicked the volume with remarkable agility to the 
further end of the shop, and, pulling off his green spectacles, grinned the identical 
grin of Robert Sawyer, Esquire, formerly of Guy’s Hospital in the Borough, with 
a private residence in Lant Street. 

“ You don’t mean to say you w^eren’t down upon me ! ” said Mr. Bob Sawyer, 
shaking Mr. Winkle’s hand wuth friendly warmth. 

“ Upon my word I was not,” replied Mr. Winkle, returning the pressure. 

“ I wonder you didn’t see the name,” said Bob Sawyer, calling his friend’s 
attention to the outer door, on which, in the same white paint, were traced the 
words “ Sawyer, late Norkeniorf.” 

“ It never caught my eye,” returned Mr. Winkle. 

“ Lord, if I had known who you were, I should have rushed out, and caught 
you in my arms,” said Bob Sawyer ; “ but upon my life, I thought you were the 
Ring’s-taxes.” 

“ No ! ” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ I did, indeed,” responded Bob Sawyer, “ and I was just going to say that I 
wasn’t at home, but if you’d leave a message I’d be sure to give it to myself; for 
he don’t know^ me ; no more does the Lighting and Paving. I think the Church- 
rates guesses who I am, and I know the Water-w'orks does, because I drew a tooth 
of his wdien I first came down here. But come in, come in ! ” Chattering in this 
way, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed Mr. Winkle into the back room, where, amusing 
himself by boring little circular caverns in the chimney-piece with a red-hot poker, 
sat no less a person than Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

“Well!” said Mr. Winkle. “This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect. 
What a very nice place you have here I ” 

“ Pretty well, pretty well,” replied Bob Sawyer. “I passed, soon after that 
precious party, and my friends came down with the needful for this business ; so 
I put on a black suit of clothes, and a pair of spectacles, and came here to look as 
solemn as I could.” 

“And a very snug little business you have, no doubt?” said Mr. Winkle, 
knowingly. 

“ Very,” replied Bob Sawyer. “ So snug, that at the end of a few years you 
might put all the profits in a wine glass, and cover ’em over with a gooseberry 
leaf.” 

“ You cannot surely mean that ? ” said Mr. Winkle. “ The stock itself — ” 

“ Dummies, my dear boy,” said Bob Sawyer; “ half the drawers have nothing 
in ’em, and the other half don’t open.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ Fact — honor! ” returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into the shop, and demon- 
strating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the little gilt knobs 
on the counterfeit drawers. “ Hardly anything real in the shop but the leeches, 
and they are second-hand.” 

“ I shouldn’t have thought it !” exclaimed Mr. Winkle, much surprised. 

“ I hope not,” replied Bob Sawyer, “ else where’s the use of appearances, eh ? 
But what will you take ? Do as we do ? That’s right. Ben, my fine fellow put 
your hand into the cujrboard, and bring out the patent digester.” 

Mr. Benjamin Allen smiled his readiness, and produced from the closet at his 
elbow a black bottle half full of brandy. 


Medi 2 / Mysteries. 


31 > 


“ You don’t take water, of course ? ” said Bob Sawyer. 

“ Thank you,” replied Air. Winkle. “ It’s rather early. I should like to qualify 
it, if you have no objection.” 

“ None in the least, if you can reconcile it to your conscience,” replied Bob 
Sawyer ; tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of the liquor with great relish. “ Ben, 
the pipkin ! ” 

Air. Benjamin Allen drew forth, from the same hiding-place, a small brass 
pipkin, which Bob Satvy^er observed he prided himself upon, particularly because 
it looked so business-like. The water in the professional pipkin having been made 
to boil, in course of time, by various little shovelsfull of coal, which Air. Bob 
Sawyer took out of a practicable wdndow-seat, labelled “ Soda Water,” Air. 
Winkle adulterated his brandy ; and the conversation was becoming general, when 
It \vas interrupted by the entrance into the shop of a boy, in a sober grey livery 
and a gold-laced hat, with a small covered basket under his arm : whom Air. Bob 
Sawyer immediately hailed with, “ Tom, you vagabond, come here.” 

The boy presented himself accordingly. 

“ You’ve been stopping to over aU the posts in Bristol, you idle young scamp ! ” 
said Air. Bob Sawyer. 

“ No, sir, I haven’t,” replied the boy. 

“ You had better not ! ” said Air. Bob Sawyer, with a threatening aspect. “Who 
do you suppose will ever employ a professional man, wdien they see his boy playing 
at marbles in the gutter, or Hying the garter in the horse-road ? Have you no 
feeling for your profession, you gioveller ? Did you leave all the medicine t ” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“ The powders for the child, at the large house with the new family, and the 
pills to be taken four times a day at the ill-tempered old gentleman’s with the 
gouty leg 1 ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Then shut the door, and mind the shop.” 

“ Come,” said Air. Winkle, as the boy retired, “ things are not quite so bad as 
you would have me believe, either. There is some medicine to be sent out.” 

Air. Bob Sawyer peeped into the shop to see that no stranger was within hear- 
ing, and leaning forw^ard to Air. Winkle, said, in a low tone : 

“ He leaves it all, at the wrong houses.” 

Mr. Winlde looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed. 

“ Don’t you see said Bob. “ He goes up to a house, rings the area bell, pokes 
a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant’s hand, and walks off. 
Servant takes it into the dining-parlour ; master opens it, and reads the label : 
‘ Draught to be taken at bed-time — pills as before — lotion as usual — the powder. 
From Sawyer’s, late Nockemorfs. Physicians’ prescriptions carefully prepared,’ 
and all the rest of it. Shows it to his whfe — she reads the label ; it goes down to 
the servants — they read the label. Next day, boy calls : ‘ Very sorry — his mis- 
take — immense business — great many parcels to deliver — Mr. Sawy’er’s compli- 
ments — late Nockemorf.’ The name gets known, and that’s the thing, my boy, 
in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it’s better than all the adver- 
tising in the woild. We have got one four-ounce bottle that’s been to half the 
houses in Bristol, and hasn’t done yet.” 

“ Dear me, I see,” observed Air. Winkle ; “ what an excellent plan ! ” 

“ Oh, Ben and I have hit upon a dozen such,” replied Bob Sayy'er, with great 
glee. “ The lamplighter has eighteenpence a week to pull the night-bell for ten 
minutes every time he comes round ; and my boy always rushes into church, just 
befoie the psalms, when the people have got nothing to do but look about ’em, 
and calls me ant, with horror and dismay depicted on his countenam:e. ‘ Blesj. 


333 


The Pickwick Club, 


mj soul,’ everybody says, ‘ somebody taken suddenly ill ! Sawyer, late Nock* 
emorf, sent for. Wliat a business that young man has !’ ” 

At the termination oi this disclosure of some of the mysteries of medicine, Mr. 
Bob Sawyer and his friend, Ben Allen, threw themselves back in their respective 
chairs, and laughed boisterously. When they had enjoyed the joke to (heir hearts’ 
content, the discourse changed to topics in which Mr. Winlde was more immedi- 
ately interested. 

We think we have hinted elsewhere, that Mr. Benjamin Allen had a way of 
becoming sentimental after brandy. The case is not a peculiar one, as we ourselt 
can testify ; having, on a few occasions, had to deal with patients who have been 
afflicted in a similar manner. At this precise period of his existence, Mr. Benjamin 
Allen had perhaps a greater predisposition to maudlinism than he had ever known 
before ; the cause of which malady was briefly this. He had been staying nearly 
three weeks with Mr. Bob Sawyer ; Mr. Bob Sawyer was not remarkable for 
temperance, nor was Mr. Benjamin Allen for the ownership of a veiy strong In;ad ; 
the consequence was, that, during the whole space of time just mentioned, Mr. 
Benjamin Allen had been wavering between intoxication partial, and intoxication 
complete. 

“ My dear friend,” said Mr. Ben Allen, taking advantage of Mr. Bob Sa^vyer’s 
temporary absence behind the counter, whither he had retired to dispense some 
of the second-hand leeches, previously referred to : “ my dear friend, I am very 
miserable.” 

iMr. Winkle professed his heartfelt regret to hear it, and begged to know whether 
he could do anything to alleviate the soitows of the suffering student. 

“ Nothing, my dear boy, nothing,” said Ben. “ You recollect Arabella, 
Winkle } My sister Arabella — a little girl. Winkle, with black eyes — when we 
were down at Wardle’s } I don’t know whether you happened to notice her, a 
nice little girl. Winkle. Perhaps my features may recal her countenance to your 
recollection } ” 

Mr. Winkle required nothing to recal the charming Arabella to his mind ; and 
it was rather fortunate he did not, for the features of her brother Benjamin would 
unquestionably have proved but an indifferent refresher to his memoi-y. He 
answered, with as much calmness as he could assume, that he perfectly remem- 
bered the young lady referred to, and sincerely trusted she was in good health. 

“ Our friend Bob is a delightful fellow. Winkle,” was the only reply of Mr. 
Ben Allen. 

“ Veiy,” said Mr. Winlde; not much relishing this close connexion of the 
two names. 

“ I designed ’em for each other ; they were made for each other, sent into the 
world for each other, born lor each other. Winkle,” said Mr. Ben Allen, setting 
down his glass with emphasis. “ There’s a special destiny in the matter, my 
dear sir ; there’s only five years’ difference between ’em, and both their birth- 
days are in August.” 

Mr. Winkle was too anxious to hear what was to follow, to express much won- 
derment at this extraordinary coincidence, marvellous as it was ; so Mr. Ben A lien, 
after a tear or two, went on to say, that, notwithstanding all his esteem and respect 
and veneration for his friend, Arabella had unaccountably and undutifully evinced 
the most determined antipathy to his person. 

“And I think,” said Mr. Ben Allen, in conclusion, “/think there’s a prioi 
attachn'ent.” 

“ Have you any idea who the object of it might be ? ” asked Mr. Winlde, with 
great trepidation. 

Mr. Ben Allen seized the poker, flourished it in a warlilce manner above hia 


Professional Conviviality. 3jj 

head, inflicted a savage blow on an imaginary skull, and wound up by saying, in 
B very expressive manner, that he only wished he could guess ; that was all. 

“ I’d show him what 1 thought of him,” said Mr. Ben Allen. And round went 
the poker again, more fiercely than before. 

All this was, of course, very soothing to the feelings of Mr. Winkle, who 
remained silent for a few minutes ; but at length mustered up resolution to inquire 
w'hether Miss Allen was in Kent. 

“No, no,” said Mr. Ben Allen, laying aside the poker, and looking very 
cunning ; “I didn’t think Wardle’s exactly the place for a headstrong girl ; so, as 
I am her natural protector and guardian, our parents being dead, 1 have brought 
her down into this part of the country to spend a few months at an old aunt’s, in 
a nice dull close place. I think that will cure her, my boy. If it doesn’t. I’ll 
take her abroad for a little while, and see what that’ll do.” 

“ Oh, the aunt’s is in Bristol, is it ? ” faltered Mr. Winkle. 

“ No, no, not in Bristol,” replied Mr. Ben Allen, jerking his thumb over his 
right shoulder : “ over that way ; down there. But, hush, here’s Bob. Not a 
M^ord, my dear friend, not a word.” 

Short as this conversation was, it roused in Mr. Winkle the highest degree of 
excitement and anxiety. The suspected prior attachment rankled in his heart. 
Could he be the object of it } Could it be for him that the fair Arabella had 
looked scornfully on the sjnightly Bob Sawyer, or had he a successful rival } He 
determined to see her, cost what it might ; but here an insurmountable objection 
presented itself, for whether the explanatory “ over that way,” and “down there,” 
of Mr. Ben Allen, meant three miles off, or thirty, or three hundred, he could in 
no Avise guess. 

But he had no opportunity of pondering over his love just then, for Bob Sawyer’s 
return w'as the immediate precursor of the amval of a meat pie from the baker’s, 
of which that gentleman insisted on his staying to partake. The cloth was laid by 
an occasional charwoman, who officiated in the capacity of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s house- 
keeper ; and a third knife and fork having been borrowed from the mother of the 
boy in the giey livery (for Mr. Sawyer’s domestic arrangements were as yet con- 
ducted on a limited scale), they sat down to dinner ; the beer being served up, 
.ts Mr. Sawyer remarked, “ in its native pewter.” 

After dinner, Mr. Bob SaAvyer ordered in the largest mortar in the shop, and 
proceeded to brew a reeking jomm of rum-punch therein : stirring up and amalga- 
mating the materials with a pestle in a very creditable and apothecary-like manner. 
Mr. Sawyer, being a bachelor, had only one tumbler in the house, which was 
assigned to Mr. Winkle as a compliment to the visitor : Mr. Ben Allen being 
accommodated with a funnel with a cork in the narrow end : and Bob Saw}'er 
contented himself with one of those wide-lipped crystal vessels inscribed with a 
variety of cabalistic characters, in which chemists are wont to measure out their 
liquid drugs in compounding prescriptions. These preliminaries adjusted, the 
punch was tasted, and pronounced excellent ; and it having been arranged that 
Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen should be considered at liberty to fill twice to Mr. 
W’inkle’s once, they started fair, with great satisfaction and good-fellowship. 

There was no singing, because Mr. Bob Saw^^er said it w'ouldn’t look pro- 
fessional ; but to make amends for this deprivation there was so much talking and 
laughing that it might have been heard, and very likely was, at the end of tlie 
street Which conversation materially lightened the hours and improved the mind 
of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s boy, who, instead of devoting the evening to his ordinary 
occupation of writing his name on the counter, and rubbing it out again, peeped 
through the glass door, and thus listened and looked on at the same time. 

The mirth of Mr. Bob Sawyer was rapidly ripening into the furious ; Mr. Tfim 


334 


The Pickwick Cluh, 


Allen was fast relapsing into the sentimental, and the punch had well-nigh dis* 
appeared altogether, when the boy hastily running in, announced that a young 
woman had just come over, to say that Sawy^er late Nockemorf was wanted 
directly, a couple of streets off. This broke up the party. Mr. Bob Sawyer, 
understanding the message, after some twenty repetitions, tied a wet cloth round 
his head to sober himself, and, having partially succeeded, put on his green 
spectacles and issued forth. Resisting all entreaties to stay till he came back, 
and finding it quite impossible to engage Mr. Ben Allen in any intelligible con- 
vei-sation on the subject nearest his heart, or indeed on any other, Mr. Winkle 
took his departure, and returned to the Bush. 

The anxiety of his mind, and the numerous meditations which Arabella had 
awakened, prevented his share of the mortar of punch producing that effect upon 
him which it would have had, under other circumstances. So, after taking a glass 
of soda-water and brandy at the bar, he turned into the coffee-room, dispirited 
rather than elevated by the occuirences of the evening. 

Sitting in the front of the fire, with his back towards him, was a tallish gentle- 
man in a great-coat ; the only other occupant of the room. It was rather a cool 
evening for the season of the year, and the gentleman drew his chair aside to 
afford the new comer a sight of the fire. What were Mr. Winkle’s feelings when, 
in doing so, he disclosed to view the face and figure of the vindictive and sangui- 
nary Dowler ! 

Mr. Winlde’s first impulse was to give a violent pull at the nearest bell-handle, 
but that unfortunately happened to be immediately behind Mr. Bowler’s head. 
He had made one step towards it, before he checked himself. As he did so, Mr. 
Dowler very hastily drew back. 

“Mr. Winkle, sir. Be calm. Don’t strike me. I won’t bear it. A blow! 
Never I” said Mr. Dowler, looking meeker than Mr. Winlde had expected in a 
gentleman of his ferocity. 

“A blow, sir stammered Mr. Winkle. 

“ A blow, sir,” replied Dowler. “ Compose your feelings. Sit down. Hear me.” 

“ Sir,” said Mr. Winkle, trembling from head to foot, “ before I consent to sit 
down beside, or opposite you, without the presence of a waiter, I must be secured 
by some further understanding. You used a threat against me last night, sir, a 
dreadful threat, sir.” Here Mr. Winlde turned very pale indeed, and stopped 
short. 

“ I did,” said Dowler, with a countenance almost as white as Mr. Winkle’s. 
“ Circumstances were suspicious. They have been explained. I respect your 
bravery. Your feeling is upright. Conscious innocence. There’s my hand. 
Grasp it.” 

“ Really sir,” said Mr. Winkle, hesitating whether to give his hand or not, and 
almost fearing that it was demanded in order that he might be taken at an 
advantage, “really sir, I ” 

“I know what you mean,” interposed Dowler. “You feel aggrieved. Very 
natural. So should I. I was wrong. 1 beg your pardon. Be friendly. Forgive 
me.” With this, Dowler fairly forced his hand upon Mr. Winkle, and shaking it 
with the utmost vehemence, declared he was a fellow of extreme spirit, and he 
had a higher opinion of him than ever. 

“Now,” said Dowler, “sit down. Relate it all. How did you find me? 
When did you follow ? Be frank. Tell me.” 

“ It’s quite accidental,” replied Mr. Winkle, greatly perplexed by the curious 
and unexpected nature of the interview, “ Quite.” 

“ Glad of it,” said Dowler. “ I woke this morning. I had forgotten my 
tKrcat. 1 laughed at the accident. I felt friendly. I slid so.” 


Magnanimity. 




To whom ? ” inquired Mr. Winkle. 

“ To Mrs. Dowler. ‘ You made a vow,’ said she. ‘ I did,’ said I. ‘ It was a 
rash one,’ said she. ‘ It was,’ said I. ‘I’ll apologise. Where is /le ?’ ” 

“ Who } ” inquired Mr. Winkle. 

“You,” replied Dowler. “ 1 went down stairs. You were not to be fovoid. 
Pickwick looked gloomy. Shook his head. Hoped no violence would be com- 
mitted. I saw it all. You felt yourself iii'ulted. You had gone, for a friend per- 
haps. Possibly for pistols. ‘ High spirit,’ said I. ‘ I admire him.’ ” 

Mr. Winlde coughed, and beginning to see how the land lay, assumed a look of 
importance. ' 

“ I left a note for you,” resumed Dowler. “ I said I was sorry. So I was. 
Pressing business called me here. You were not satisfied. You followed. You 
required a verbal explanation. You were light. It’s all over now. My business 
is tinished. I go back to-moirow. Join me.” 

As Dowler progiessed in his explanation, Mr. Winkle's countenance grew more 
and more dignified. The mysterio is natme of the commencement of their conve - 
sation was explained ; Mr. Dowler had as great an objection to duelling as himself ; 
in short, th.s Dlusteiing and awful personage was one of the most egregioi.s cowards 
in exi'tence, and interpreting Mr. Winlde’s absence thiougti the medium of his 
own feais, had taken the s. me step as himself, and prudently retired until all 
excitement of feeling should have subsided. 

As tne real state of the ca-^e dawned upon Mr. Winlde’s m'nd, he looked very 
terrible, and said he was perfectly satisfied ; but at the same time, said so, with j.n 
air that left Mr. Dowler no alternative but to infer th.it if he had not been, some- 
th’ng most horrible and destructive must inevitably have occurred. Mr. Dowle*" 
appeared to be im uessed with a becoming sense of Mr. Winkle’s magnanimity 
and condescension ; and the two belligerents parted .or the night, with mariy 
protestations of eternal friendship. 

About half-past twelve o’clock, when Mr. Winkle had been revelling some 
twenty minutes in the full luxury of his fir>t sleep, he was suddenly awakened by 
a loud knocking at his chamber-door, which, being repeated with increased veh.^- 
mence, caused him to s.art up in bed, and inquire who was there, and what tne 
matter was. 

“Pjease, sir, he'e’s a young man which says he must see you directly,” re- 
sponded the voice of the chamoermaid. 

“A young man ! ” exc aimed Mr. Winkle. 

“No mist.dce about that ’e:e, sir,” replied ano' her voice through the keyhole; 
“ and if that wery same interestin’ young creetur ain’t let invithout delay, it’s wery 
possible as his legs vill enter aiore his countenance.” The young man gave a 
gentle kick at one of the lower panels of the door, after he had given utterance to 
this hint, as if to add lorce and point to the remark. 

“ Is that y{ u, Sam ? ” inq ired Mr. Winkle, spiing ng oat of bed. 

“ Quite impossible to identity any gen’i’m’n viih any degree o’ mental satisfac- 
tion, vithout lookin’ at him, sir,” replied the voice, dogmatically. 

Mr. Winkle, not much doubdng who the young man was, unlocked the door ; 
which he had no sooner done, than Mr. Samuel Weller entered with great preci- 
pitation, and care.ully re-locking it on the inside, deliberately put the key in his 
waistcoat pocket : and, after surveying Mr. Winkle from head to foot, said ; 

“ You’re a wery humorous young gen I’m’n, you air, sir ! ” 

“ What do you mean by this conduct, Sam } ” inquired Mr. Winkle, indig- 
nantly. “ Get out, sir, this instant. What do you mean, sir } ” 

“ What do / mean,” retorted Sam ; “ come, sir, this is rayther too rich, as the 
foimg lady said, wen she remonstrated with the pastry-cook, a ter he’d sold her a 


The Pickwick Club. 


336 


pork-pie as had got nothin’ but fat inside. What do / mean ! Well, that ain’t a 
bad ’un, that ain’t.” 

“ Unlock that door, and leave this room immediately, sir,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“ I shall leave this here room, sir, just precisely at the weiy same moment as 
you leaves it,” lesponded Sam, speaking n a forcible manner, and seating himself 
with perfect gravity. “If I find it necessaiy to carry you away, pick-a-back, o’ 
course I shall leave it the least bit o’ time possible afore you ; but allow me to 
express a hope as you won’t reduce me to ’ex-tremities ; in sai ing wich, I merely 
quote wot the nobleman said to the fractioas pennywinkle, ven he vouldn’t come 
out of his shell by means of a pin, and he constqvently began to be afeered that he 
should be obliged to crack him in the parlour-door.” At the end of this address, 
which was unusually lengthy lor him, Mr. Weller planted his hands on his knee<, 
and looked full in Mr. Winkle’s face, with an expression of countenance which 
snowed that he had not the remotest intention of being trifled with. 

“You're a amiably-disposed young man, sir, I don’t think,” resumed Mr. 
Weller, in a tone of moral reproof, “to go inwolving our precious governor in all 
sorts o’ fanteegs, wen he’s made up his mind to go through every think for prin- 
ciple. You’re far worse nor Dodson, sir; and as *or Fogg, I consider him a bom 
angel to you ! ” Mr. Weller having accompanied this last sentiment with an em- 

E hatic slap on each knee, folded his arms with a look of g eat disgust, and threw 
imself back in his chair, as if awaiting the criminal’s defence. 

“ My good fellow,” said Air. Winkle, extending his hand ; his tee'h chattering 
all the time he spoke, for he had been standing, during the whole of Mr. Weller’s 
lecture, in his night-gear ; “ My good fellow, I respect your attachment to my 
excellent friend, and I am very sorry indeed, to have added to his causes for dis- 
quiet. There, Sam, theie ! ” 

“Well,” said Sam, rather sulkily, but giving the proffeted hand a respectful 
shake at the same time : “ Well, so you ought to be, and I am very glad to find 
you air ; for, if I can help it, I won’t have him put upon by nobody, and that’s all 
about it.” 

“ Certainly not, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle. “ There ! Now go to bed, Sam, and 
we’ll talk furtlrer about this, in the morning.” 

“ I’m wery sorry,” said Sam, “ but I can’t go to bed.” 

“ Not go to bed ! ” repeated Mr. Winkle, 

“ No,” said Sam, shaking his head. “ Can’t be done.” 

“ You don’t mean to say you’re going back to-night, Sam urged Mr.Winlde, 
greatly surprised. 

“ Not unless you particklerly wish it,” replied Sam ; “ but I musn’t leave this 
here room. The governor’s orders wos peremptory.” 

“ Nonsense, Sam,” said Mr. Winkle, “ I must stop here two or three days ; and 
more than that, Sam, you must stop here too, -to assist me in gaining an interview 
with a young lady — Miss Allen, Sam ; you remember her — whom I must and will 
see before I leave Bristol.” 

But in reply to each of these positions, Sam shook his head with great firmness, 
and ener getically replied, “ It can’t be done.” 

After a great deal of argument and representation on the part of Mr. Winkle, 
however, and a full disclosure of what had passed in the interview with Dowler, 
Sam began to waver ; and at length a compromise was effected, of which the 
following were the main and principal conditions : 

That Sam should retire, and leave Mr. Winkle in the undisturbed possession ol 
his apartment, on the condition that he had j ermission to lock the door on the 
outside, and carry off the key ; provided always, that in the event of an alann ol 
fire, or other dangerous contingency, the door should be instantly unlocked. That 


State of Mr. JFlnhle's Aff'ections. 337 

a letter should be -w'-itten to Mr. Pickwick early next morning, and forwarded per 
Dowler, requesting his consent to Sam and Mr. Winkle’s remaining at Bristol, for 
the purpose, and with the object, already assigned, and begging an answer by the 
next coach ; if favourable, the aforesaid parties to remain accordingly, and if not, 
to return to Bath inwnediately on the receipt thereof. And, la tly, that Mr. Winlde 
should be understood as distinctly pledging himse f not to resort to the window, 
fire-place, or other surreptitious mode of escape, in the meanwhile. These stipula- 
tions having been concluded, Sam locked the door and departed. 

He had nearly got down stairs, when he stopped, and drew the key from his pocket. 

“ I quite forgot about the knockin’ down,” said Sam, half turning back. “ The 
governor distinctly said it was to be done. Amazin’ stupid o’ me, that ’ere ! Never 
mind,” said Sam, brightening up, “ it’s easily done to-morrow, anyways.” 

Apparently much consoled by this reflection, Mr. Weller once more deposited 
the key in his pocket, and descending the remainder of the stairs without any 
fresh visitations of conscience, was soon, in common with the other inmates of 
the house, bxiried in profound repose. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

MR. SAMUEL WELLER, BEING ENTRUSTED WITH A MISSION OF LOVE, PROCEEDS 
TO EXECUTE IT ; WITH WHAT SUCCESS WILL HEREINAF-'IER APPEAR. 

During the whole of next day, Sam kept Mr. Winkle steadily in sight, fully 
determined not to take his eyes off him for one instant, until he should receive 
express instructions from the fountain-head. However disagreeable Sam’s very close 
watch and great vigilance were to hir. Winkle, he thought it better to bear with 
them, than, by any act of violent opposition,- to hazard being carried away by 
force, which Mr. Weller more than once strongly hinted was the line of conduct 
that a strict sense of duty prompted him to pursue. There is little reason to 
doubt that Sam would very speedily have quieted his scruples, by bearing 
Mr. Winkle back to Bath, bound hand and foot, had not Mr. Pickwick’s prompt 
attention to the note, which Dowler had undertaken to deliver, forestalled any 
such proceeding. In short, at eight o’clock in the evening, Mr. Pickwick himself 
walked into the coffee-room of the Bush tavern, and told Sam with a smile, to his 
very great relief, that he had done quite right, and it was unnecessaiy for him to 
mount guard any longer. 

“ I thought it better to come myself,” said Mr. Pickwick, addressing 
Mr. Winkle, as Sam te\£encumbered him of his great-coat and travelling shawl, 
“ to ascertain, before I gave my consent to Sam’s employment in this matter, that 
you are quite in earnest and serious, with respect to this young lady.” 

“Serious, from my heart — from my soul!” returned Mr. Winlde, with grea 
energy. 

“ Remember,” said Mr. Pickwdck, with beaming eyes, “ we met her at our 
excellent and hospitable friend's. Winkle. It would be an ill return to tamper, 
lightl), and wdthout due consideration, with this young lady’s affections. I’ll not 
allow that, sir. I’ll not allow it.” 

“ I have no such intention, indeed,” exclaimed Mr. Winkle, warmly. “ I have 
considered the matter well, for a long time, ahd I feel that my happiness is bound 
up in her. ” 

“ That’s wot we call tying it up in a small parcel, sir,” interposed Mr. Weller, 
with an agreeable smile. 


s 


338 


The Pickwick Club, 


Mr. Winkle looked somewhat stem at this interruption, and Mr. Pickwick 
angiily requested his attendant not to jest with one of the best feelings of oui 
nature; to which Sam replied, “That he wouldn’t, if he was, aware on it; but 
there were so many tm ’em, that he hardly know’d which was the best ones wen he 
heerd ’em mentioned.” 

Mr. Winkle then recounted what had passed between himself and Mr. Ben 
Allen, relative to Arabella ; stated that his object was to gain an inteiwiew with 
the } 0 -ing lady, and make a formal disclosure of his passion; and declared his 
conviction, founded on certain dark hints and mutterings of the aforesaid Ben, 
that, wherever she was at present immured, it was somewhere near the Downs. 
And this was his whole stock of knowledge or suspicion on the subject. 

With this very slight clue to guide him, it was determined that Mr. Weller 
should start next morning on an expedition of discovery ; it was also arranged 
that Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle, who were less confident of their powers, 
should parade the town meanwhile, and accidentally drop in upon Mr. Bob 
Sawyer in the course of the day, in the hope of seeing or hearing something of 
the young lady’s whereabout. 

Accordingly, next morning, Sam Weller issued forth upon his quest, in no way 
daunted by, the very discouraging prospect before him ; and away he walked, up 
one street and down another — we were going to say, up one hill and doMTi another, 
only it’s all uphill at Clifton — without meeting with anything or anybody that 
tended to throw the faintest light on the matter in hand. Many were the 
colloquies into which Sam entered with grooms who were airing horses on roads, 
and nursemaids who were airing children in lanes ; but nothing could Sam elicit 
from either the first-mentioned or the last, which bore the slightest reference to 
the object of his artfully-prosecuted inquiries. There were a great many young 
ladies in a great many houses, the greater part whereof were shrewdly suspected 
by the male and female domestics to be deeply attached to somebody, or perfectly 
ready to become so, if opportunity offered. But as none among these young 
ladies was Miss Arabella Allen, the information left Sam at exactly the old point 
of wisdom at which he had stood before. 

Sam struggled across the Downs against a good high wind, wondering whether 
it was always necessary to hold your hat on with both hands in that part of the 
country, and came to a shady by-place about which were sprinkled several little 
villas of quiet and secluded appearance. Outside a stable-door at the bottom of 
a long back lane without a thoroughfare, a gioom in undress was idling about, 
apparently persuading himself that he was doing something with a spade and a 
wheelbarrow. We may remark, in this place, that we have scarcely ever seen a 
groom near a stable, in his lazy moments, who has not been, to a greater or less 
extent, the victim of this singular delusion. 

Sam thought he might as well talk to this groom as to any one else, especially 
as he was very tired with walking, and there was a good large stone just opposite 
the w'heelbanow ; so he strolled down the lane, and, seating himself on the stone, 
opened a conversation with the ease and freedom for which he was remarkable. 

“ Mornin’, old friend,” said Sam. 

“ Arternoon, you mean,” replied the gioom, casting a surly look at Sam. 

“You’re wery right, old friend,” said Sam ; ^*1 do mean arteinoon. How are 
you 

“ Why, I don’t find myself much the better for seeing of you,” replied the 
ill-tempered groom. 

“ That’s wery odd — that is,” said Sam, “ for you look so uncommon cheerful, 
and seem altogether so lively, that it does vun’s heart good to see you.” 

Tbe surly groom looked surlier still at this, but not sufficifutly so to product 


A Lucky Accident, 33^ 

any effe(.t upon Sam, who immediately inquired, with a countenance of g^eai 
anxiety, whether his master’s name was not Walker, 

“ No, it ain’t,” said the ‘p-oom. 

“ Nor Brown, I s’pose ? ” said Sam, 

“No, it ain’t.” 

“ Nor Vilson 

“ No ; nor that neither,” said the groom. 

“ Veil,” replied Sam, “ then I’m mistaken, and he hasn’t got the honor o* my 
acquaintance, which 1 thought he had. Don’t wait here out o’ compliment to 
me,” said Sam, as the groom wheeled in the barrow, and prepared to shut the 
gate. “ Ease afore ceremony, old boy ; I’ll excuse you.” 

“I’d knock your head off for half-a-crown, ’ said the surly groom, bolting one 
half of the gate. 

“ Couldn’t afford to have it done on those terms,” rejoined Sam. “ It ’ud be 
worth a life’s board vages at least, to you, and ’ud be cheap at that. Make my 
compliments in doors. Tell ’em not to vait dinner for me, and say they needn’t 
mind puttin’ any by, for it’ll be cold afore I come in.” 

In reply to this, the groom waxing very wrath, muttered a desire to damage 
somebody’s person ; but disappeared without carrying it into execution, slamming 
the door angrily after him, and wholly unheeding Sam’s affectionate request, that 
he would leave him a lock of his hair before he went. 

Sam continued to sit on the large stone, meditating upon what was best to be 
done, and revolving in his mind a plan for knocking at all the doors Muthin five 
miles of Bristol, taking them at a hunured and fifty or two hundred a day, and 
endeavouring to find Miss Arabella by that expedient, when accident all of a 
sudden threw in his way what he might have sat there for a twelvemonth and yet 
not found without it. 

Into the lane where he sat, there opened three or four garden-gates, belonging 
to as many houses, which though detached from each other, were only separated 
by their gardens. As these were large and long, and well planted with trees, the 
houses were not only at some distance off, but the greater part of them were nearly 
concealed from view. Sam was sitting with his eyes fixed upon the dust-heap 
outside the next gate to that by which the groom had disappeared, profoundly 
turning over in his mind the difficulties of his present undertaking, when the gate 
opened, and a female servant came out into the lane to shake some bed-side 
carpets. 

Sam was so very busy with his own thoughts, that it is probable he would have 
taken no more notice of the young woman than just raising his head and remarking 
that she had a very neat and pretty figure, if his feelings of gallantry had not been 
most strongly roused by observing that she had no one to help her, and that the 
carpets seemed too heavy for her single strength. Mr. Weller was a gentleman of 
great gallantry in his own way, and he no sooner remarked this circumstance than 
he hastily rose from the large stone, and advanced towards her. 

“My dear,” said Sam, sliding up with an air of great respect, “You’ll spile 
that wery pret ty figure out o’ all perportion if you shake them carpets by yourself. 
Let me help you.” 

The young lady, who had been coyly affecting not to know that a gentleman 
was so near, turned round as Sam spoke — no doubt (indeed she said so, afterwards) 
»o decline this offer from a perfect stranger — when instead of speaking, she started 
back, and uttered a half-suppressed scream. Sam was scarcely less staggered, for 
in the countenance of the well-shaped female servant, he beheld the very features 
of his Valentine, the pretty housemaid from Mr. Nupkins’s. 

“ Wy, Mary my dear ! ” said Sam. 


34C 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Lauk, Mr. Weller,” said Mary, “ how you do frighten one !” 

Sam made no verbal answer to this complaint, nor can we precisely say what 
reply he did make. We merely know that after a short pause Mary said, “ La- 
do adun, Mr. Weller ! ” and that his hat had fallen off a few moments before— from 
both of which tokens we should be disposed to infer that one kiss or more, had 
passed between the parties. 

“ Why, how did you come here ? ” said Mary, when the conversation to which 
this interruption had been offered, was resumed. 

“ O’ course I came to look arter you, my darlin,” replied Mr. Weller ; for once 
permitting his passion to get the better of his veracity. 

“And how did you know I was here?” inquired Mary. “Wlio could have 
told you that I took another service at IpsA^dch, and that they afterwards moved 
all the way here ? Who could have told you that, Mr. Weller ? ” 

“ Ah to be sure,” said Sam with a cunning look, “ that’s the pint. Who could 
ha’ told me ? ” 

“ It wasn’t Mr. Muzzle, was it ? ” inquired Mary. 

“ Oh, no,” replied Sam, with a solemn shake of the head, “ it wam’t him.” 

“ It must have been the cook,” said Mary, 

** O’ course it must,” said Sam. 

“ Well, I never heard the like of that ! ” exclaimed Mary. 

“ No more did I,” said Sam. “ But Mary, my dear ; ” here Sam’s manner 
grew extremely affectionate : “ Mary, my dear, I’ve got another affair in hand as 
is wery pressin’. There’s one o’ my governor’s friends — Mr. Winkle, you re- 
member him,” 

“ Him in the green coat ? ” said Mary. “ Oh, yes, I remember him.” 

“Well,” said Sam, “he’s in a horrid state o’ love; reg’larly comfoozled, and 
done over with it.” 

“ Lor ! ” interposed Mary. 

“ Yes,” said Sam : “ but that’s nothin’ if we could find out the young ’ooman ; ” 
and here Sam, with many digiessions upon the personal beauty of Mary, and the 
unspeakable tortures he had experienced since he last saw her, gave a faithful 
account of Mr. Winkle’s present predicament. 

“Well,” said Mary, “ I never did ! ” 

“O’ course not,” said Sam, “and nobody never did, nor never vill neither; 
and here am I a walkin’ about like the wandering Jew — a sportin’ character you 
have perhaps heerd on Mar)^-, my dear, as wos alvays doin’ a match agin’ time, 
and never vent to sleep — looking arter this here Miss Arabella Allen.” 

“ Miss who ? ” said Mary, in great astonishment. 

“ Miss Arabella Allen,” said Sam. 

“ Goodness gracious ! ” said Mary, pointing to the garden door which the sulky 
groom had locked after him. “ Why, it’s that ver}^ house ; she’s been living there 
these six weeks. Their upper housemaid, which is lady’s maid too, told me all 
abojut it over the wash-house palin’s before the family was out of bed, one momin’.” 

“Wot, the wery next door to you ? ” said Sam. 

“The very next,” replied Mary. 

Mr. Weller was so deeply over ome on receiving this intelligence that he found 
it absolutely necessary to cling to his fair informant for support ; and divers little 
love passages had passed between them, before he was sufficiently collected to 
return to the subject. 

“ Veil,” said Sam at length, “if this don’t beat cock-fightin’, nothin’ never vill, 
as the Lord Alayor said, ven the chief secretary o’ state proposed his missis’s 
Health arter dinner. That wery next house I Wy, I’ve got a message to her as 
I’ve been a tryin’ all day to deliver.” 


Mr. IVeller up a Tree. 


34 * 


“Ah/’ said Mary, “but you can’t deliver it now, because she only walks in the 
garden in the evening, and then only for a very little time ; she nevei goes out, 
without the old lady.” 

Sarn luminated for a few moments, and finally hit upon the following plan of 
operations ; that he should return just at dusk — the time at which Arabella 
invariably took her walk — and, being admitted by Mary into the garden of the 
house to which she belonged, would contrive to scramble up the wall, beneath the 
over-hanging boughs of a large pear-tree, which would effectually screen him 
from observation ; would there deliver his message, and arrange, if possible, an 
inteiwiew on behalf of Mr. Winkle for the ensuing evening at the same hour. 
Having made this arrangement with great dispatch, he assisted Mary in the 
long-deferred occupation of shaking the carpets. 

It is not half as innocent a thing as it looics, that shaking little pieces of carpel 
—at least, there may be no great harm in the shaking, but the folding is a very 
insidious process. So long as the shaking lasts, and the two parties are kept the 
carpet’s length apart, it is as innocent an amusement as can well be devised ; but 
when the folding begins, and the distance between them gets gradually lessened 
from one half its former length to a quarter, and then to an eighth, and then to 
a sixteenth, and then to a thirty-second, if the carpet be long enough ; it becomes 
dangerous. We do not know, to a nicety, how many pieces of carpet were folded 
in this instance, but we can venture to state that as many pieces as there were, so 
many times did Sam kiss the pretty housemaid. 

Mr. Weller regaled himself with moderation at the nearest tavern until it was 
nearly dusk, and then returned to the lane without the thoroughfare. Having 
been admitted into the garden by Mary, and having received from that lady sundry 
admonitions concerning the safety of his limbs and neck, Sam mounted into the 
pear-tree, to wait until Arabella should come in sight. 

He waited so long without this anxiously expected event occurring, that he 
began to think it was not going to take place at all, when he heard light footsteps 
upon the gravel, and immediately afterwards beheld Arabella walking pensively 
down the garden. As soon as she came nearly below the tree, Sam began, by 
way of gently indicating his presence, to make sundiy diabolical noises similar to 
those which would probably be natural to a person of middle age who had been 
afflicted with a combination of inflammatory sore throat, croup, and hooping- 
cough, from his earliest infancy. 

Upon this, the young lady cast a hurried glance towards the spot from whence 
the dreadful sounds proceeded; and her previous alarm being not at all diminished 
when she saw a man among the branches, she would most certainly have decamped, 
and alarmed the house, had not fear fortunately deprived her of the power of moving, 
and caused her to sink down on a garden seat ; which happened by good luck to 
be near at hand. 

“ She’s a goin’ off,” soliloquised Sam in great perplexity. “ Wot a thing it is, 
as these here young creeturs will go a faintin’ avay just wen they oughtn’t to. 
Here, young ’ooman. Miss Sawbones, Mrs. Vinkle, don’t ! ” 

Whether it was the magic of Mr. Winkle’s name, or the coolness of the open 
air, or some recollection of Mr. Weller’s voice, that revived Arabella, matters not. 
She raised her head and languidly inquired “Who’s that, and what do you 
want ? ” 

“ Hush,” said Sam, swinging himself on to the wall, and crouching there in aa 
small a compass as he could reduce himself to, “ only me, miss, only me.” 

“ Mr. Pickwick’s servant ; ” said Arabella, earnestly. 

“ The wery same, miss,” replied Sam. “ Here’s Mr. Vinkle reg’larly sewed up 
vith desperation, miss.” 


The Pickwick Club. 


34a 

“Ah ! ” said Arabella, drawing nearer the wall. 

“ Ah indeed,” said Sam. “ Ve thought ve should ha’ been obliged to straight. 
veskit him last night ; he’s been a ravin’ all day ; and he says if he can’t see you 
afore to-morrow night’s over, he vishes he may be somethin’-unpleasanted if he 
don’t drownd hisself.” 

“ Oh no, no, Mr. Weller ! ” said Arabella, clasping her hands. 

“ That’s wot he says, miss,” replied Sam. “ He’s a man of his word, and it’s 
my opinion he’ll do it, miss. He’s heerd all about you from the Sawbones in 
barnacles.” 

“ From my brother ! ” said Arabella, having some faint recognition of Sam’s 
description. 

“I don’t rightly know which is your brother miss,” replied Sam. “ Is it the 
dirtiest vun o’ the two ” 

“ Yes, yes, Mr. Weller,” returned Arabella, “ go on. Make haste, pray.” 

“ Well miss,” said Sam, “he’s heerd all about it from him ; and its the gov’nor’s 
opinion that if you don’t see him wery quick, the Sawbones as we’ve been a speak- 
ing on, ’ull get as much extra lead in his head as’ll damage the dewelopment o’ 
the orgins if they ever put it in spirits artervards.” 

“ Oh, what can I do to prevent these dreadful quarrels ! ” exclaimed Arabella. 

“ It’s the suspicion of a priory ’tachment as is the cause of it aU,” replied Sam. 
“ You’d better see him, miss.” 

“ But how — where?” cried Arabella. “I dare not leave the house alone. 
My bi other is so unkind, so unreasonable ! I know how strange my talking thus 
to you must appear, Mr. Weller, but I am very, very unhappy — ” and here poor 
Arabella wept so bitterly, that Sam grew chivalrous. 

“ It may seem veiy strange talkin’ to me about these here affairs, miss,” said 
Sam with gieat vehemence : “ but all I can say is, that I’m not only ready but 
villin’ to do anythin’ as’ll make matters agreeable ; and if chuckin’ either o’ them 
Sawboneses out o’ winder ’ull do it, I’m the man.” As Sam Weller said this, he 
tucked u]) his wTistbands, at the imminent hazard of falling off the wall in so doing, 
to intimate his readiness to set to work immediately. 

Flattering as these professions of good feeling were, Arabella resolutely declined 
(most unaccountably as Sam thought,) to avail herself of them. For some time 
she strenuously refused to grant Mr. Winkle the interview Sam had so pathetically 
requested ; but at length, when the conversation threatened to be interrupted by 
the unwelcome arrival of a third party, she huniedly gave him to understand, with 
mnny profes.sions of gratitude, that it was barely possible she might be in the garden 
an hour later, next evening. Sam understood this perfectly well ; and Arabella 
bestowing upon him one of her sweetest smiles, tripped gracefully away, leaving 
Mr. Weller in a state of very great admiration of her charms, both personal and 
mental. 

Having descended in safety from the wall, and not forgotten to devote a few 
moments to his own particular birsiness in the same department, Mr. Weller then 
made the best of his way back to the Bush, where his prolonged absence had occa- 
sioned much speculation and some alarm. 

“We must be careful,” said Mr. Pickwick, after listening attentively to Sam’s 
tale, “not for our own sakes, but for that of the young lady. We must be very 
cautious.” 

“ We said Mr. Winkle, with marked emphasis. 

Mr. Pickwick’s momentary look of indignation at the tone of this remark, sub 
sided into his characteristic expression of benevolence, as he replied : 

“ We, sir ! I shall accompany you.” 

“ Yoi I ” said Mr. Winlde. 


Armed tuith a Dark Lantern. 


343 


** I,** replied Mr. Pickwick, mildly. “ In affording you this interview, the young 
lady has taken a natural, perhaps, but still a very impiT^ent step. If I am present 
at the meeting, a mutual friend, who is old enough to be the father of both paities, 
the voice of calumny can never be raised against her hereafter.” 

Mr. Pickwick’s eyes lightened with honest exultation at his own foresight, as he 
spoke thus. Mr. Winkle was touched by this little trait of his delicate respect for 
the yonvig protegee oi his friend, and took his hand with a feeling of regard, akin 
to veneration. 

“You shall go,’' said Mr. Winkle. 

“ I will,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Sam, have my great-coat and shawl ready, 
and order a conveyance to be at the door to-morrow evening, rather earlier than is 
absolutely necessary, in order that we may be in good time.” 

Mr. Weller touched his hat, as an earnest of his obedience, and withdrew to 
make all needful preparations for the expedition. 

The coach was punctual to the time appointed ; and Mr. Weller, after duly 
installing Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Winkle inside, took his seat on the box by the 
driver. They alighted, as had been agreed on, about a quarter of a mile from the 
place of rendezvous, and desiring the coachman to await their return, proceeded 
the remaining distance on foot. 

It was at this stage of the undertaking that Mr. Pickwick, with many smiles and 
various other indications of great self satisfaction, produced from one of his coat 
pockets a dark lantern, with which he had specially provided himself for the occa- 
sion, and the gi eat mechanical beauty of which, Jie proceeded to explain to Mr. 
Winkle as they walked along, to the no small surprise of the few stragglers they 
met. 

“I should have been the better for something of this kind, in my last garden 
expedition, at night ; eh, Sam .? ” said Mr. Pickwick, looking good-humouredly 
round at his follower, who was trudging behind. 

“ Wery nice things, if they’re managed properly, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; 
“but when you don’t want to be seen, I think they’re more useful arter the 
candle’s gone out, than wen it’s alight.” 

ISIr. Pickwick appeared struck by Sam’s remarks, for he put the lantern into his 
pocket again, and they walked on in silence. 

“ Down here, sir,” said Sam. “ Let me lead the way. This is the lane, sir.” 

Down the lane they went, and dark enough it was. Mr. Pickwick brought 
out the lantern, once or twice, as they groped their way along, and threw a very 
brilliant little tunnel of light Ijefore them, about a foot in diameter. It was very 
pretty to look at, but seemed to have the effect of rendering surrounding objects 
rather darker than before. 

At length they arrived at the large stone. Here Sam recommended his master 
and Mr. Winkle to seat themselves, while he reconnoitred, and ascertained whether 
Mary was yet in waiting. 

After an absence of five or, ten minutes, Sam returned, to say that the gate was 
opened, and all quiet. Following him with stealthy tread, Mr. Pickwick and 
Mr. Winkle soon found themselves in the garden. Here everybody said “ Hush ! ” 
a good many times ; and that being done, no one seemed to have any very distinct 
apprehension of what was to be done next. 

“ Is Miss Allen in the garden yet, Maiy inquired Mr. Winkle, much agitated. 

“ I don’t know, sir,” replied the pretty housemaid “ The best thing to be done, 
sir, will be for Mr. Weller to give you a hoist up into the tree, and perhaps Mr. 
Pickwick will have the goodness to see that nobody comes up the lane, while I 
watch at the other end of the garden. Goodness gracious, what’s that !” 

“ Tliat ’ere blessed lantern ’ull be the death ca us all,’^ exclaimed Sam, peevishly. 


344 


The Pichwick Clul. 


“ Take care wot you’re a doin’ on, sir ; you’re a sendin’ a blaze o’ light, right into 
the back parlor winder.” 

“Dear me!” said Mr. Pickwick, turning hastily aside, “I didn’t mean to do 
that.” 

“Now, it’s in the next house, sir,” remonstrated Sam. 

“ Bless my heart ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, turning round again. 

“ Now, it’s in the stable, and they’ll think the place is a’ fire,” said Sam. 
“ Shut it up, sir, can’t you ? ” 

“ It’s the most extraordinary lantern I ever met with, in all my life 1 ” exclaimed 
Mr. Pickwick, gieatly bewildered by the effects he had so unintentionally produced. 
“ I never saw such a powerful reflector.” 

“ It ’ll be vun too powerful for us, if you keep blazin’ avay in that manner, sir,” 
replied Sam, as Mr. Pickwick, after various unsuccessful efforts, managed to close 
the slide. “There’s the young lady’s footsteps. Now, Mr. Vinkle, sir, up vith 
you.” 

“ Stop, stop I ” said Mr. Pickwick, “I must speak to her first. Help me up, 
Sam.” 

“ Gently, sir,” said Sam, planting his head against the wall, and making a 
platform of his back. “ Step a top o’ that ’ere flower-pot, sir. Now then, up vith 
you.” 

“ I’m afraid I shall hurt you, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Never mind me, sir,” replied Safti. “Lend him a hand, Mr. Vinlcle, sir. 
Steady, sir, steady ! That’s the time o’ day ! ” 

As Sam spoke, Mr. Pickwick, ‘by exertions almost supernatural in a gentleman 
of his years and weight, contrived to get upon Sam’s back ; and Sam gently 
raising himself up, and Mr. Pickwick holding on fast by the top of the wall, while 
Mr. Winkle clasped him tight by the legs, they contrived by these means to bring 
his spectacles just above the level of the coping. 

“ My dear,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking over the wall, and catching sight ol 
Arabella, on the other side, “ Don’t be frightened, my dear, it’s only me.” 

“ Oh pray go away, Mr. Pickwick,” said Arabella. “Tell them all to go away 
I am so dreadfully frightened. Dear, dear Mr. Pickwick, don’t stop there. You’ll 
fall down and kill yourself, I know you will.” 

“ Now, pray don’t alarm yourself, my dear,” said Mr. Pickwick, soothingly. 
“There is not the least cause for fear, I assure you. Stand firm Sam,” said Mr. 
Pickwick, looking down. 

“ All right, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “ Don’t be longer than you can con- 
weniently help, sir. You’re rayther heavy.” 

“ Only another moment, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ I merely wished you 
to know, my dear, that I should not have allowed my young friend to see you 
in this clandestine way, if the situation in which you are placed, had left him any 
alternative ; and lest the impropriety of this step should cause you any uneasiness, 
my love, it may be a satisfaction to you, to know that I am present. That’s all, 
my dear.” 

“ Indeed, Mr. Pickwick, I am very much obliged to you for your kindness and 
consideration,” replied Arabella, drying her tears with her handkerchief. She 
would probably have said much more, had not Mr. Pickwick’s head disappeared 
with great swiftness, in consequence of a false step on Sam’s shoulder, which 
brought him suddenly to the ground. He was up again in an instant, however, 
and bidding Mr. Winkle make haste and get the interview over, ran out into the 
lane to keep watch, with all the courage and ardour of youth. Mr. Winlcle 
himself, inspired by the occasion, was on the wall in a moment, merely pausing 
to request Sam to be careful of his master. 


Scientific Observations. 


345 


** I’ll take care on him, sir,” replied Sam. “ Leave him to me.” 

“ Where is he ? What’s he doing, Sam ? ” inquired Mr. Winkle. 

“ Bless his old gaiters,” rejoined Sam, looking out at the garden-door. “ He’s 
a keepin’ guard in the lane vith that ’ere dark lantern, like a amiable Guy Fawkes ! 
I nv'ver see such a fine creetur in my days. Blessed it I don’t think his heart must 
ha’ been bom five-and twenty year arter his body, at least ! ” 

Mr. Winkle stayed not to hear the encomium upon his friend. He had dropped 
from the wall ; thrown himselt at Arabella’s feet ; and by this time was pleading 
the sincerity of his passion with an eloquence worthy even of Mr. Pickwick himselfi 

While these things were going on in the open air, an elderly gentleman of 
scientific attainments was seated in his library, two or three houses off", writing a 
philosophical treatise, and ever and anon moistening his clay and his labours with 
a glass of claret from a venerable-looking bottle which stood by his side. In the 
agonies of composition, the elderly gentleman looked sometimes at the caiqiet, 
sometimes at the ceiling, and sometimes at the wall ; and when neither carpet, 
ceiling, nor wall, afforded the requisite degree of inspiiation, he looked out ol the 
window. 

In one of these pauses of invention, the scientific gentleman was gazing 
abstractedly on the thick darkness outside, when he was very much surprised by 
observing a most biilliant light glide through the air, at a short distance above the 
gi'ound, and almost instantaneously vanish. After a short time the phenomenon 
was repeated, not once or twice, but several times : at last the scientific gentleman, 
laying down his pen, began to consider to what natural causes these appearances 
were to be assigned. 

They were not meteors ; they were too low. They were not glow-womas ; they 
were too high. They were not will-o’-the-wisps ; they were not fire-flies ; they 
w^ere not fire-works. What could they be ? Some extraordinary and wonderful 
phenomenon of nature, w^hich no philosopher had ever seen before ; something 
which it had been reserved for him alone to discover, and which he should immor- 
talise his name by chronicling for the benefit of posterity. Full of this idea, the 
scientific gentleman seized his pen again, and committed to paper sundry notes of 
- these unparalleled appearances, with the date, day, hour, minute, and precise second 
at which they were visible : all of which were to form the data of a voluminous 
treatise of great research and deep learning, which should astonish all the atmo- 
spherical sages that ever drew breath in any part of the civilised globe. 

He threw himself back in his easy chair, wrapped in contemplations of his future 
greatness. The mysterious light appeared more brilliantly than before : dancing, 
to all appearance, up and down the lane, crossing from side to side, and moving in 
an orbit as eccentric as comets themselves. 

The scientific gentleman was a bachelor. He had no wife to call in and astonish, 
so he rang the bell for his servant. 

“ Pruffle,” said the scientific gentleman, “ there is something veiy extraordinaiy 
in the air to-night. Did you see that ?” said the scientific gentleman, pointing out 
of the window, as the light again became visible. 

“ Yes, I did, sir.” 

“ What do you think of it, Pruffle ?” 

“ Think of it, sir ?” 

“ Yes. You have been bred up in this country. "What should you say was the 
cause of those lights, now ?” 

The scientific gentleman smilingly anticipated Pruffle’s reply that he could assign 
no cause lor them at all. Pruffle meditated. 

I should say it was thieves, sir,” said Pruffle at length. 

“You ’re a fool, and may go down stairs,” said the scientific gentleman 




The Pickwick Club. 


“Thank you, sir,” said Praffle. And down he went. 

But the scientific gentleman could not rest under the idea of the ingenious 
treatise he had projected being lost to the world, which must inevitably be the 
case if the speculation of the ingenious Mr. Pruffle were not stifled in its birth. He 
put on his hat and walked quickly down the garden, determined to investigate the 
matter to the veiy^ bottom. 

Now, shortly before the scientific gentleman walked out into the garden, Mr. 
Pickwick had run down the lane as fast as he could, to convey a false alarm that 
somebody was coming that way ; occasionally drawing back the slide of the dark 
lantern to keep himself from the ditch. The alarm was no sooner given, than Mr. 
Winkle scrambled back over the wall, and Arabella ran into the house ; the 
garden-gate was shut, and the three adventurers were making the best of their way 
down the lane, when they were startled by the scientific gentleman unlocking his 
garden -gate. 

“ Hold hard,” whispered Sam, who was, of course, the first of the party. 
“ Show a light for just vun second, sir.” 

Mr. Pickwick did as he was desired, and Sam, seeing a man’s head peeping out 
veiy cautiously within half-a-yard of his own, gave it a gentle tap with his clenched 
fist, which knocked it, with a hollow sound, against the gate. Having performed 
this feat with great suddenness and dexterity, Mr. Weller caught Mr. Pickwick up 
on his back, and followed Mr. Winkle down the lane at a pace which, considering 
the burden he carried, was perfectly astonishing. 

“Have you got yourvind back agin, sir,” inquired Sam, when they had reached 
the end. 

“Quite. Quite, now,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“Then come along, sir,” said Sam, setting his master on his feet again. 
“ Come betveen us, sir. Not half a mile to run. Think you ’re vinnin a cup, sir. 
Now for it.” 

Thus encouraged, Mr. Pickwick made the very best use of his legs. It may be 
confidently stated that a pair of black gaiters never got over the ground in better 
style than did those of Mr. Pickwick on this memorable occasion. 

The coach was waiting, the horses were fresh, the roads were good, and the 
driver was willing. The whole party arrived in safety at the Bush before Mr. 
Pickwick had recovered his breath. 

“ In with you at once, sir,” said Sam, as he helped his master out. “ Don’t 
stop a second in the street, arter that ’ere exercise. Beg your pardon, sir,” con- 
tinued Sam, touching his hat as Mr. Winkle descended. "^“Hope there wam’t a 
priory ’tachment, sir 

Mr. Winkle grasped his humble friend by the hand, and whispered in his ear, 
“It’s all right, Sam ; quite right.” Upon which Mr. Weller struck three distinct 
blows upon his nose in token of intelligence, smiled, winked, and proceeded to 
put the steps up, with a countenance expressive of lively satisfaction. 

As to the scientific gentleman, he demonstrated, in a masterly treatise, that 
these wonderful lights were the effect of electricity ; and clearly proved the same 
by detailing how a flash of fire danced before his eyes when he put his head out 
of the gate, and how he received a shock which stunned him for a quarter of 
an hour afterwards ; which demonstration delighted all the Scientific Associa- 
tions beyond measure, and caused him to be considered a light of science ever 
sflerwards. 


Mr. Weller Stops the Way. 


34; 


CHAPTER XL. 

INTRODUCES MR. PICKWICK TO A NEW AND NOT UNINTERESTING SCENE IN 
THE GREAT DRAMA OF LIFE. 

The remainder of the period which Mr. Pickwick had assigned as the duration of 
the stay at Bath, passed over without the occurrence of anything material. Trinity 
Term commenced. On the expiration of its first week, Mr. Pickwick and his friends 
returned to London ; and the former gentleman, attended of course by Sam, 
straightway repaired to his old quarters at the George and Vulture. 

On the third morning after their arrival, just as all the clocks in the city were 
striking nine individually, and somewhere about nine hundred and ninety-nine 
collectively, Sam was taking the air in George Yard, when a queer sort of fresh 
painted vehicle drove up, out of which there jumped with gieat agility, throwing 
the reins to a stout man who sat beside him, a queer sort of gentleman, who seemed 
made for the vehicle, and the vehicle for him. 

The vehicle was not exactly a gig, neither was it a stanhope. It was not what 
is currently denominated a dog-cart, neither was a taxed-cart, nor a chaise-cart, 
nor a guillotined cabriolet ; and yet it had something of the character of each and 
every of these machines. It was painted a bright yellow, with the shafts and 
wheels picked out in black ; and the driver sat, in the orthodox sporting style, on 
cushions piled about two feet above the rail. The horse was a bay, a well-looking 
animal enough ; but with something of a flash and dog-fighting air about him, 
nevertheless, which accorded both with the vehicle and his master. 

The master himself was a man of about forty, with black hair, and carefully 
combed whiskers. He was dressed in a particularly gorgeous manner, with plenty of 
articles of jewellery about him — all about three sizes larger than those which are 
iisually worn by gentlemen — and a rough gieat-coat to crown the whole. Into 
one pocket of this great-coat, he thrust his left hand the moment he dismounted, 
while from the other he drew forth, with his right, a veiy bright and glaring silk 
handkerchief, with which he wished a speck or two of dust from his boots, and 
then, cnimpling it in his hand, swaggered up the court. 

It had not escaped Sam’s attention that, when this person dismounted, a shabby- 
looking man in a brown great-coat shorn of divers buttons, who had been pre- 
viously slinking about, on the opposite side of the way, crossed over, and remained 
stationary close by. Having something more than a suspicion of the object of the 
gentleman’s visit, Sam preceded him to the George and Vultme, and, turning 
sharp round, planted himself in the centre of the doorway. 

“ Now, my fine fellow ! ” said the man in the rough coat, in an imperious tone, 
attempting at the same time to push his way past. 

“ Now, sir, wot’s the matter ! ” replied Sam, returning the push with compound 
interest. 

“ Come, none of this, my man ; this won’t do with me,” said the owner of the 
rough coat, raising his voice, and turning white. “ Here, Smouch ! ” 

“ Well, wot’s amiss here ? ” growled the man in the brown coat, who had been 
gradually sneaking up the court during this short dialogue. 

“Only some insolence of this young man’s,” said the principal, gifing Sam 
another push. 

“ Come, none o’ this gammon,” growled Smouch, giving him another, and a 
harder one. 

This last push had the effect which it was intended by the experienced Mr 
Smouch to produce*; for while Sam, anxious to return the coi ipliment, was grind- 


348 


The Pickwick Club. 


ing that gentleman’s body against the dooi-post, the pnncipal crept past, and made 
his wa) to the bar : whither Sam, after bandying a few epithetical remarks with 
Mr. Smoiich, followed at once. 

“ Good morning, my dear,” said the principal, addressing the young lady at the 
bar, with Botany Bay ease, and New South Wales gentility ; “ which is Mr. 
Pickwick’s room, ray dear } ” 

“ Show him up,” said the bar-maid to a waiter, without deigning another look 
at the exquisite, in reply to his inquiry. 

The waiter led the, way up stairs as he was desired, and the man in the rough 
coat followed, with Sam behind him : who, in his progress up the staii case, 
indulged in sundiy gestures indicative of supreme contempt and defiance : to the 
unspeakable gratification of the servants and other lookers-on. Mr. Smouch. who 
was troubled with a hoarse cough, remained below, and expectorated in the 
passage. 

Mr. Pickwick was fast asleep in bed, when his early visitor, followed by Sam, 
entered the room. The noise they made, in so doing, awoke him. 

“ Shaving water, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, from within the curtains. 

“ Shave you directly, Mr. Pickwick,” said the visitor, drawing one of them back 
from the bed’s head. “ I’ve got an execution against you, at the suit of Bardell. — 
Here’s the warrant. — Common Pleas. — Here’s my card. I suppose you’ll come 
over to my house.” Giving Mr. Pickwick a friendly tap on the shoulder, the 
sherift’s officer (for such he was) threw his card on the counterpane, and pulled a 
gold toothpick from his waistcoat pocket. 

“ Namby’s the name,” said the sheriff’s deputy, as Mr. Pickwick took his 
spectacles from under the pillow, and put them on, to read the card. “ Namby, 
Bell Alley, Coleman Street.” 

At this point, Sam Weller, who had had his eyes fixed hitherto on Mr. Namby’s 
shining beaver, interfered : 

“Are you a Quaker said Sam. 

“ I’ll let you know who I am, before I’ve done with you,” replied the indignant 
officer. “ I’ll teach you manners, my fine fellow, one of these fine mornings.” 

“Thankee,” said Sam. “I’ll do the same to you. Take your hat off.” With 
this, Mr. Weller, in the most dexterous manner, knocked Mr. Namby’s hat to the 
other side of the room : with such violence, that he had very nearly caused him to 
swallow the gold tooth-pick into the bargain. 

“ Observe this, Mr. Pickwick,” said the disconcerted officer, gasping for breath. 
“ I’ve been assaulted in the execution of my dooty by your servant in your 
chamber. I’m in bodily fear. I call you to witness this.” 

“ Don’t witness nothin’, sir,” interposed Sam. “ Shut your eyes up tight, sir. 
I’d pitch him out o’ winder, only he couldn’t fall far enough, ’cause o’ the leads 
outside.” 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick in an angry voice, as his attendant made various 
demonstrations of hostilities, “ if you say another word, or offer the slightest 
interference with this person, I discharge you that instant.” 

“ But, sir ! ” said Sam. 

“ Hold your tongue,” interposed Mr. Pickwick. “ Take that hat up again.” 

But this Sam flatly and positively refused to do ; and, after he had been severely 
reprimanded by his master, the officer, being in a hurry, condescended to pick it 
up himself : venting a great variety of threats against Sam meanwhile, which that 
gentleman received with perfect composure : merely obseiwing that if Mr. Nambj; 
would have the goodness to put his hat on again, he would knock it into the latter 
end of next week. Mr. Namby, perhaps thinking that such a process might be 
productive of inconvenience to himself, declined to offer the temptation, and, soon 


Nam by' f Coffee Room. 


549 


alter, called up Smouch. Having informed him that the capture was made, and 
that he was to wait for the prisoner until he should have finished dressing, Namby 
then swaggered out, and drove away. Smouch, requesting Mr. Pickwick in a 
surl) manner “to be as alive as he could, for it was a busy time,” drew up a 
chair by the door, and sat there, until he had finished dressing. Sam was then 
dispatched for a hackney coach, and in it the triumvirate proceeded to Coleman 
Street. It was fortunate the distance was short ; for Mr. Smouch, besides pos- 
sessing no very enchanting conversational powers, was rendered a decidedly un- 
pleasant companion in a limited space, by the physical weakness to which we have 
elsewhere adverted. 

The coach having turned into a very narrow and dark street, stopped before a 
house with iron bars to all the windows ; the door-posts of which were graced 
by tlie name and title of “ Namby, Officer to the Sheriffs of London : ” the inner 
gate having been opened by a gentleman who might have passed for a neglected 
twin brother of Mr. Smouch, and who was endowed with a large key for the 
purpose, Mr. Pickwick was shown into the “coffee-room.” 

This coffee-room was a front parlour: the principal features of which were fresh 
sand and stale tobacco smoke. Mr. Pickwick bowed to the three persons who 
were seated in it when he entered ; and having dispatched Sam for Perker, 
withdrew into an obscure corner, and from thence looked with some cmiosity 
upon his new companions. 

One of these was a mere boy of nineteen or twenty, who, though it was yet 
barely ten o’clock, was drinking gin and water, and smoking a cigar : amusements 
to -which, judging from his inflamed countenance, he had devoted himself pretty 
constantly for the last year or two of his life. Opposite him, engaged in stiiring 
the fire with the toe of his right boot, was a coarse vulgar young man of about 
thiriy, with a sallow face and harsh voice : evidently possessed of that knowledge 
of the world, and captivating freedom of manner, which is to be acquired in 
pub:ic-house parlours, and at low billiard-tables. The third tenant of the apart- 
ment was a middle-aged man in a very old suit of black, who looked pale and 
haggard, and paced up and down the room incessantly : stopping, now and then, 
to look with great anxiety out of the window as if he expected somebody, and then 
resuming his wallc. 

“ You’d better have the loan of my razor this morning, Mr. Ayresleigh,” said 
the man who was stirring the fire, tipping the wink to his friend the boy. 

“ Thank you, no, I shan’t want it ; I expect I shall be out, in the course of 
an hour or so,” replied the other in a hurried manner. Then, walking again 
up fo the window, and once more returning disappointed, he sighed deeply, and 
left the room ; upon which the other two burst into a loud laugh. 

“ Well, I never saw such a game as that,” said the gentleman who had offered 
the razor, whose name appeared to be Price. “Never!” Mr. Price confirmed 
the assertion wuth an oath, and then laughed again, when of course the boy 
(wh^ thought his companion one of the most dashing fellows alive) laughed also. 

“You’d hardly think, would you now,” said Price, turning towards Mr. 
Pickwick, “ that that chap ’s been here a week yesterday, and never once shaved 
himself yet, because he feels so certain he ’s going out in half an hour’s time, that 
he thinks he may as well put it off till he gets home } ” 

“ Poor man I ” said Mr. I’ickwick. “ Are his chances of getting out of his 
difficulties really so great ? ” 

“Chances be d— d,” replied Price; “he hasn’t half the ghost of one. I 
wouldn’t give that for his chance of walking about the streets this time ten 
yems.” With this Mr. Price snapped his fingers contemptuously, and rang 
the bell. 


350 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Give me a sheet of paper, Crookey,” said Mr. Price to the attendant, who 
in dress and general appearance looked something between a bankrupt grazier, 
and a drover in a state of insolvency ; “ and a glass of brandy and M'ater, Crookey, 
d’ye hear ? I’m going to write to my father, and I must have a stimulant, or 
I shan’t be able to pitch it strong enough into the old boy.” At this facetious 
speech, the young boy, it is almost needless to say, was fairly convulsed. 

“ That ’s right,” said Mr. Piice. “Never say die. All fun, ain’t it 

“ Prime!” said the young gentleman. 

“You’ve some spirit about you, you have,” said Price. “You’ve seeti. 
something of life.” 

“ I rather think I have I ” replied the boy. He had looked at it through the 
dirty panes of glass in a bar door. 

Mr. Pickwick feeling not a little disgusted with this dialogue, as well as with 
the air and manner of the two beings by whom it had been carried on, was about 
to inquire whether he could not be accommodated with a private sitting-room, 
when two or three strangers of genteel appearance entered, at sight of whom the 
boy threw his cigar into the fire, and whispering to Mr. Price that they had come 
to “ make it all right ” for him, joined them at a table in the further end of the 
room. 

It would appear, however, that matters were not going to be made all right 
quite so speedily as the young gentleman anticipated ; for a very long conversation 
ensued, of which Mr. Pickwick could not avoid hearing certain angry fragments 
regarding dissolute conduct, and repeated forgiveness. At last, there were very 
distinct allusions made by the oldest gentleman of the party to one Whitecross 
Street, at which the young gentleman, notwithstanding his primeness and his 
spirit and his knowledge of life into the bargain, reclined his head upon the table, 
and howled dismally. 

Very much satisfied with this sudden bringing down of the youth’s valour, 
and this effectual lowering of his tone, Mr. Pickwick rang the bell, and was shown, 
at his own request, into a private room furnished with a carpet, table, chairs, 
sideboard and sofa, and ornamented with a looking-glass, and various old prints. 
Here, he had the advantage of hearing Mrs. Namby’s performance on a square 
piano over head, while the breakfast was getting ready; when it came, Mr. 
Perker came too. 

“ Aha, my dear sir,” said the little m*n, “ nailed at last, eh } Come, come, 
I ’m not sorry for it either, because now you ’ll see the absurdity of this conduct. 
I ’ve noted down the amount of the taxed costs and damages for which the ca-sa 
was issued, and we had better settle at once and lose no time. Namby is come 
home by this time, I daresay. What say you, my dear sir.? Shall I draw a cheque, 
oi will you .? ” The little man rubbed his hands with affected cheerfulness as he 
said this, but glancing at Mr. Pickwick’s countenance, could not forbear at the 
same time casting a desponding look towards Sam Weller. 

“ Perker,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ let me hear no more of this, I beg. I see 
no advantage in staying here, so I shall go to prison to-night.” 

“ You can’t go to Whitecross Street, my dear sir,” said Perker. “ Impossible ! 
There are sixty beds in a ward ; and the bolt’s on, sixteen hours out of the four- 
and-twenty.” 

“ I would rather go to some other place of confinement if I can,” said 
Mr. Pickwick. “ If not, I must make the best I can of that.” 

“ You can go to the Fleet, my dear sir, if you ’re determined to go somewhere,” 
•aid Perker, 

“That’ll do,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I’ll go ther^ directly I have finished 
my breakfast.” 


Mysterious Strangers. 


“ Stop, stop, my dear sir ; not the least occasion for being in such a violent 
hurry to get into a place that most other men are as eager to get out of,” said th.* 
good-natured little attorney. “We must have a habeas corpus. There’ll 
be no judge at chambers till four o’clock this afternoon. You must wait till 
then.” 

“Very good,” said Mr. Pickwick, with unmoved patience. “Then v/e will 
have a chop, here, at two. See about it, Sam, and tell them to be punctual.” 

Mr. Pickwick remaining firm, despite all the remonstrances and arguments of 
Perker, the chops appeared and disappeared in due course ; he was then put into 
another hackney-coach, and carried off to Chanceiy Lane, after waiting half an 
hour or so for Mr. Namby, who had a select dinner party and could on no 
account be disturbed before. 

There were two judges in attendance at Sergeant’s Inn — one King’s Bench, 
and one Common Pleas — and a great deal of business appeared to be transacting 
before them, if the number of Iaw}-er’s clerks who were hurrying in and out with 
bundles of papers, afforded any test. When they reached the low archway 
which foiTOs the entrance to the Inn, Perker was detained a few moments 
parleying with the coachman about the fare and the change ; and Mr. Pickwick, 
stepping to one side to be out of the way of the stream of people that were 
pouring in an out, looked about him with some curiosity. 

The people that attracted his attention most, were three or four men of shabby- 
genteel appearance, vho touched their hats to many of the attorneys who passed, 
and seemed to have some business there, the nature of which Mr. Pickwick could 
not divine. They were curious-looking fellows. One, was a slim and rather 
lame man in rusty black, and a white neckerchief ; another, was a stout burly 
person, dressed in the same apparel, with a great reddish-black cloth round his 
neck ; a third, was a little weazen drunken-looking body with a pimply face. 
They were loitering about, with their hands behind them, and now and then with 
an anxious countenance whispered something in the ear of some of the gentlemen 
with papers, as they hurried by. Mr. Pickwick remembered to have very often 
observed them lounging under the archw’ay when he had been walking past ; and 
his curiosity was quite excited to know to what branch of the profession these 
dingy-looking loungers could possibly belong. 

He was about to propound the question to Namby, who kept close beside him, 
sucking a large gold ring on his little finger, when Perker bustled up, and obseiwing 
that there was no time to lose, led the way into the Inn. As Mr. Pickwick fol- 
lowed, the lame man stepped up to him, and civilly touching his hat, held out a 
written card, which Mr. Pickwick, not washing to hurt the man’s feelings by re- 
fusing, courteously accepted and deposited in his waistcoat-pocket. 

“ Now,” said Perker, turning round before he entered one of the offices, to see 
that his companions were close behind him. “ In here, my dear sir. Hallo, w'hat 
do you want 

This last question was addressed to the lame man, who, unobserved by Mr. Pick- 
wick, made one of the party. In reply to it, the lame man touched his hat again, 
with all imaginable politeness, and»motioned towards Mr. Pickwick. 

“ No, no,” said Perker with a smile. “We don’t want you, my dear friend, we 
don’t want you.” 

“ I beg your pardon, sir,” said the lame man. “ The gentleman took my card. 
I hope you will employ me, sir. The gentleman nodded to me. I’ll be judged by 
the gentleman himself. You nodded to me, sir.?” 

“ Pooh, pooh, nonsense. You didn’t nod to any body, Pickwick ? A mistake^ 
a mistake,” said Perker. 

“ The gentlrman handed me his card,” replied Mr. Pickwick, producing it from 


353 


The Pickwick Club. 


bis waistcoat-pocket. “ I accepted it, as the gentleman seemed to wish it — in fact 
I had some curiosity to look at it when I should be at leisure. I ^ 

The little attorney burst into a loud laugh, and returning the card to the lame 
man, informing him it was all a mistake, whispered to Mr. Pickwick as the man 
turned away in dudgeon, that he was only a bail, 

A what !” exclaimed Mr. Pickwiek. 

“ A bail,” replied Perker. 

» A bail ! ” 

“ Yes, my dear sir — half a dozen of ’em here. Bail you to any amount, and only 
charge half-a-crown. Curious trade isn’t it ?” said Perker, regaling himsell with 
a pinch of snuff. 

“ What ! Am I to understand that these men earn a livelihood by waiting about 
here, to perjure themselves before the judges of the land, at the rate oi half-a-crown 
a crime ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, quite aghast at the disclosure. 

“ Why, I don’t exactly know about perjury, my dear sir,” replied the little gen- 
tleman. “ Harsh word, my dear sir, very harsh word indeed. It’s a legal fiction, 
my dear sir, nothing more.” Saying which, the attorney shrugged his shoulders, 
smiled, took a second pinch of snuff, and led the way into the office of the judge's 
clerk. 

This was a room of specially dirty appearance, with a very low ceiling and old 
panneled walls ; and so badly lighted, that although it was broad day outside, great 
tallow candles were burning on the desks. At one end, was a door leading to the 
judge’s private apartment, round which were congregated a crowd of attorneys and 
managing clerks, who were called in, in the order in which their respective ap- 
pointments stood upon the file. Eveiy time this door was opened to let a party 
out, the next party made a violent rush to get in ; and, as in addition to the nume- 
rous dialogues which passed between the gentlemen who were waiting to see the 
judge, a variety of personal squabbles ensued between the greater part of those who 
nad seen him, there was as much noise as could well be raised in an apartment of 
such confined dimensions. 

Nor were the conversations of these gentlemen the only sounds that broke upon 
the ear. Standing on a box behind a wooden bar at another end of the room, was 
a clerk in spectacles, who was “ taking the affidavits large batches of which 
were, from time to time, canied into the private room by another clerk for the 
judge’s signature. There were a large number of attorneys’ clerks to be sworn, 
and it being a moral impossibility to swear them all at once, the struggles of 
these gentlemen to reach the clerk in spectacles, were like those of a crowd to 
get in at the pit door of a theatre when Gracious Majesty honours it with its 
presence. Another functionary, from time to time, exercised his lungs in calling 
over the names of those who had been sworn, for the purpose of restoring to them 
their affidavits after they had been signed by the judge : which gave rise to a few 
more scuffles ; and all these things going on at the same time, occasioned as much 
bustle as the most active and excitable person could desire to behold. There were 
yet another class of persons — those who were waiting to attend summonses their 
employers had taken out, which it was optional to the attoiney on the opposite side 
to attend or not — and whose business it was, from time to time, to cry out the 
opposite attorney’s name ; to make certain that he was not in attendance without 
their knowledge. 

For example. Leaning against the wall, close beside the seat Mr. Pickwick had 
taken, was an office-lad of fourteen, with a tenor voice ; near him, a common-la\# 
clerk with a bass one. 

A clerk hurried in with a bundle of papers, and stared about him. 

“ Sniggle and Blink,” cried the tenor. 


To Prison. 


353 


“ Porkin and Snob,” giowled the bass. 

“ Stumpy ana Deacon,” said the new comer. 

Nobody answered ; the next man who came in, was hailed by the whole three ; 
and he in his turn shouted for another firm ; and then somebody else roared in a 
loud voice for another ; and so forth. 

All this time, the man in the spectacles was hard at work, swearing the clerks : 
the oath being invariably administered, without any effoit at punctuation, and 
usually in the following terms : 

“ Take the book in your right hand this is your name and hand-writing you swear 
that the contents of this your affidavit are true so help you God a shilling you must 
get change I haven’t got it.” 

“Well, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “I suppose they are getting the habeas corpus 
ready.” 

“ Yes,” said Sam, “ and I vish they’d bring out the have-his-carcase. It’s wery 
unpleasant keepin’ us vailin’ here. I’d ha’ got half a dozen have-his-carcases ready, 
pack’d up and all, by this time.” 

Wirat sort of cumbrous and unmanageable machine, Sam Weller imagined a 
habeas corpus to be, does not appear ; for Perker, at that moment, walked up, and 
took Mr. Pickwick away. 

The usual forms having been gone through, the body of Samuel Pickwick was 
soon afterwards confided to the custody of the tipstaff, to be by him taken to the 
Warden of the Fleet Prison, and there detained until the amount of the damages 
and costs in the action of Bardell against Pickwick was fully paid and satisfied. 

“And that,” said Mr. Pickwick, laughing, “will be a veiy long time. Sam, 
call another hackney-coach. Perker, my dear friend, good bye.” 

“ I shall go with you, and see you safe there,” said Perker. 

“Indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “I would rather go wnthout any other at- 
tendant than Sam. As soon as I get settled, I will write and let you know, and I 
shall expect you immediately. Until then, good bye.” 

As Air. Pickwick said this, he got into the coach which had by this time 
arrived : followed by the tipstaff. Sam having stationed himself on the box, it 
rolled away. 

“ A most extraordinary man that !” said Perker, as he stopped to pull on his 
gloves. 

“ What a bankrupt he’d make, sir,” observed Mr. Lowten, who was standing 
near. “ How he would bother the commissioners ! He’d set ’em at defiance if 
they talked of committing him, sir.” 

The attorney did not appear very much delighted with his clerk’s professional 
estimate of Mr. Pickwick’s character, for he walked away without deigning any 
reply. 

The hackney-coach jolted along Fleet Street, as hackney-coaches usually do. 
The horses “went better,” the driver said, when they had anything before them, 
(they must have gone at a most extraordinary pace when there was nothing,) and 
so the vehicle kept behind a cart ; when the cart stopped, it stopped ; and when 
the cart went on again, it did the same. Mr. Pickwick sat opposite the tipstaff ; 
and the tipstaff sat with his hat between his knees, whistling a tune, and looldng 
out of the coach window. 

Time performs wonders. By the powerful old gentleman’s aid, even a hackney- 
coach gets over half a mile of ground. They stopped at length, and Air. Pickwick 
alighted at the gate of the Fleet. 

The tipstaff, looking over his shoulder to see that his charge was folloAving close 
at his heels, preceded Air. Pickwick into the prison ; turning to the left, after they 
had entered, they passed through an open door ijito a lobby, from which a heavy 

A A 


354 


The Pickwick Club, 


gate : opposite to that by which they had entered, and which was guarded by a 
stout turnkey with the key in his hand : led at once into tlie interior of the prison. 

Here they stopped, while the tipstaff delivered his papers ; and here Mr. Pick- 
wick was apprised that he would remain, until he had undergone the ceremony, 
known to the initiated as “ sitting for your portrait.” 

“ Sitting for my portrait ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Having your likeness taken, sir,” replied the stout turnkey. “ AVe’re capital 
hands at likenesses here. Take ’em in no time, and always exact. Walk in, sir, 
and make yourself at home.” 

INIr. Pickwdck complied with the invitation, and sat himself down : w'hen Mr. 
Weller, who stationed himself at the back of the chair, whispered that the sitting 
was merely another term for undergoing an inspection by the different turnkeys, 
in order that they might know prisoners from visitors. 

“Well, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ then I wish the artists would come. This 
is rather a public place.” 

“ They vont be long, sir, I des-say,” replied Sam. “ There’s a Dutch clock, 
sir.” 

“ So I see,” observed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ And a bird-cage, sir,” says Sam. “ Veels vithin veels, a prison in a prison. 
Ain’t it, sir ? ” 

As Mr. Weller m^de this philosophical remark, Mr. Pickwick was aware that 
his sitting had commenced. The stout turnkey having been relieved from the lock, 
sat down, and looked at him carelessly, from time to time, while a long thin man 
who had relieved him, thrust his hands beneath h:s coat-tails, and planting himself 
opposite, took a good long view' of him. A third rather surly-looking gentleman : 
who had apparently been disturbed at his tea, for he was disposing of the last 
remnant of a cinst and butter when he came in : stationed himself close to Mr. 
Pickwick ; and, resting his hands on his hips, inspected him narrowly ; while tw'o 
others mixed with the group, and studied his features with most intent and thought- 
ful faces. Mr. Pickwick winced a good deal under the operation, and appeared to 
sit very uneasily in his chair ; but he made no remark to anybody while it was being 
performed, not even to Sam, who reclined upon the back of the chair, reflecting, 
partly on the situation of his master, and partly on the great satisfaction it w'ould 
have afforded him to make a fierce assault upon all the turnkeys there assembled, 
one after the other, if it w’ere lawful and peaceable so to do. 

At length the likeness was completed, and Mr. Pickwick was informed, that he 
might now proceed into the prison. 

“Where am I to sleep to-night?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Why I don’t rightly know about to-night,” replied the stout turnkey, “ You’ll 
be chummed on somebody to-morrow, and then you’ll be all snug and comfortable. 
The first night ’s generally rather unsettled, but you ’ll be set all squares to-morrow. ” 

After some discussion, it was discovered that one of the turnkeys had a bed to 
let, which Mr. Pickwick could have for that night. He gladly agreed to hire it. 

“ If you’ll come with me. I’ll show it you at once,” said the man. “ It ain’t a 
large ’un ; but it’s an out-and-outer to sleep in. This way, sir.” 

They passed through the inner gate, and descended a short flight of steps. 
TJie key was turned after them ; and Mr. Pickwick found himself, for the first rin> * 
in his life, within the walls of a debtor’s prison. 


The Ways of the Place. 


353 


CHAPTER XLI. 

WHAT BEFEL MR. PICKWICK WHEN HE GOT INTO THE FLEET ; WHAT PRISONERS 
HE SAW THERE ; AND HOW HE PASSED THE NIGHT. 

Mr. Tom Roker, the gentleman who had accompanied Mr. Pickwick into the 
prison, turned sharp round to the right when he got to the bottom of the little 
flight of steps, and led the way, through an iron gate which stood open, and up 
another short flight of steps, into a long narrow gallery, dirty and low, paved with 
stone, and veiy diml) lighted by a window at each remote end. 

“ This,” said the gentleman, thrusting his hands into his pockets, and looking 
carelessly over his shoulder to Mr. Pickwick, “ This here is the hall flight.” 

“ Oh,” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking down a dark and filthy staircase, which 
appeared to lead to a range of damp and gloomy stone vaults, beneath the ground, 
“and those, I suppose, are the little cellars where the prisoners keep their small 
quantities of coals. Unpleasant places to have to go down to ; but very convenient, 
I dare say.” 

“ Yes, I shouldn’t wonder if they was convenient,” replied the gentleman, 
“ seeing that a few people live there, pretty snug. That’s the Fair, that is.” 

“ My friend,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ you don’t really mean to say that human 
beings live down in those wretched dungeons } ” 

“Don’t I.?” replied Mr. Roker, with indignant astonishment; “why 
shouldn’t I ” 

“ Live ! Live down there ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“Live doAvn there! Yes, and die down there, too, wery often!” replied Mr. 
Roker; “and what of that.? Who’s got to say anything agin it? Live down 
there ! Yes, and a wery good place it is to live in, ain’t it ? ” 

As Roker turned somewhat fiercely upon Mr. Pickwick in saying this, and, 
moreover muttered in an excited fashion certain unpleasant invocations concern- 
ing his own eyes, limbs, and circulating fluids, the latter gentleman deemed it 
advisable to pursue the discourse no further. Mr. Roker then proceeded to mount 
another staircase, as dirty as that which led to the place which had just been the 
subject of discussion, in which ascent he was closely followed by Mr. Pickwick 
and Sam. 

“ There,” said Mr. Roker, pausing for breath when they reached another galleiy 
of the same dimensions as the one below, “ this is the coffee-room flight ; the one 
above’s the third, and the one above that’s the top ; and the room where you’re 
a-going to sleep to-night is the warden’s room, and it’s this way— come on.” 
Having said all this in a breath, Adr. Roker mounted another flight of stairs, with 
Air. Pickwick and Sam Weller following at his heels. 

These staircases received light from sundiy windows placed at some little dis- 
tance above the floor, and looking into a gravelled area bounded by a high brick 
wall, with iron chevaux-de-frise at the top. This area, it appeared from Mr. Roker’s 
statement, was the racket-ground ; and it further appeared, on the testimony ot 
the same gentleman, that there was a smaller area in that portion of the prison 
which was nearest Faningdon Street, denominated and called “ the Painted 
Ground,” from the fact of its walls having once displayed the semblances of 
various men-of-war in full sail, and other artistical effects achieved in bygone 
times by some imprisoned draughtsman in his leisime hours. 

Having communicated this piece of information, apparently more for the pur- 
pose of discharging his bosom of an important fact„ than with any specific view of 
enlightening Air. Pickwick, the guide, having at length reached another gallery, 


55<5 


The Pickwick Club, 


led the way into a sm^ll passage at the extreme end : opened a door : and dis* 
closed an apartment of an appearance by no means inviting, containing eight o» 
nine iron bedsteads. 

“There,” said Mr. Rolcer, holding the door open, and looking triumphantly 
round at Mr. Pickwick, “ there’s a room !” 

Mr. Pickwick’s face, however, betokened such a very trifling portion of satisfac- 
tion at the appearance of his lodging, that Mr. Roker looked for a reciprocity of 
feeling into the countenance of Samuel Weller, who, until now, had obseived a 
dignified silence. 

“ There’s a room, young man,” observed Mr. Roker. 

“ I see it,” replied Sam, with a placid nod of the head. 

“You wouldn’t think to find such a room as this in the Faningdon Hotel, 
would you ? ” said Mr. Roker, with a complacent smile. 

To this Mr. Weller replied with an easy and unstudied closing of one eye ; 
which might be considered to mean, either that he would have thought it, or that 
he would not have thought it, or that he had never thought anything at all about 
it : as the observ^er’s imagination suggested. Having executed this feat, and 
re-opened his eye, Mr. Weller proceeded to inquire which was the individual 
bedstead that Mr. Roker had so flatteringly desciibed as an out-an-outer to sleep in. 

“ That's it,” replied Mr. Roker, pointing to a ver}' rusty one in a comer. “ It 
would make any one go to sleep, that bedstead would, whether they wanted to oi 
not.” 

“ I should think,” said Sam, eyeing the piece of furniture in question with a 
look of excessive disgust, “ I should think poppies was notliing to it.” 

“ Nothing at all,” said Mr. Roker. 

" And I s’pose,” said Sam, with a sidelong glance at his master, as if to see 
whether there were any symptoms of his determination being shaken by what 
passed, “ I s’pose the other gen’l’men as sleeps here, are gen’l’men.” 

“ Nothing but it,” said Mr. Roker. “ One of ’em takes his twelve pints of ale 
a-day, and never leaves off smoking even at his meals.” 

“ He must be a first-rater,” said Sara. 

“A, I,” replied Mr. Roker. 

Nothing daunted, even by this intelligence, Mr. Pickwick smilingly announced 
his determination to test the powers of the narcotic bedstead for that night ; and 
Mr. Roker, after infonning him that he could retire to rest at whatever hour he 
thought proper, without any further notice or formality, walked off, leaving him 
standing with Sam in the gallery. 

It was getting dark ; that is to say, a few gas jets were kindled in this place 
which was never light, by way of compliment to the evening, which had set 
in outside. As it was rather warm, some of the tenants of the numerous little 
rooms which opened into the gallery on either hand, had set their doors ajar. 
^Ir. Pickwick peeped into them as he passed along, with great curiosity and 
interest. Here four or five great hulking fellows, just visible through a cloud of 
tobacco-smoke, were engaged in noisy and riotous conversation over half-emptied 
pots of beer, or playing at all-fours with a very greasy pack of cards. In the 
adjoining room, some solitary tenant might be seen, poring, by the light of a 
feeble tallow candle, over a bundle of soiled and tattered papers, yellow with 
dust and dropping to pieces from age : writing, for the hundredth time, some 
lengthened statement of his grievances, for the perusal of some great man whose 
eyes it would never reach, or whose heart it would never touch. In a third, a 
man, with his wife and a whole crowd of children, might be seen racking up a 
scanty bed on the ground, or upon a few chairs, for the younger ones to pass the 
Uigkt in. And in a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth, and a seventh, the noise, end 


rhe Population of the Place. 35^ 

Ihe beer, and the tobacco -smoke, and the cards, all came over again in greatei 
force than before. 

In the galleries themselves, and more especially on the staircases, there lingered 
a great number of people, who came there, some because their rooms were empty 
and lonesome, others because their rooms were full and hot : the greater part 
because they were restless and uncomfortable, and not possessed of the secret of 
exactly knowing what to do with themselves. There were many classes of people 
here, from the labouring man in his fustian jacket, to the broken-down spendthiift 
in his shawl dressing-gown, most appropriately out at elbows ; but there was the 
same air about them all — a listless jail-bird careless swagger, a vagabondish 
who’s-afraid sort of bearing, which is wholly indescribable in words, but which 
ai.y man can understand in one moment if he wish, by setting foot in the nearest 
debtor’s prison, and looking at the very first group of people he sees there, with 
the same interest as Mr. Pickwick did. 

“ It strikes me, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, leaning over the iron-rail at the stair- 
head, “ It strikes me, Sam, that imprisonment for debt is scarcely any punishment 

“ Think not, sir ?” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“ You see how these fellows drink, and smoke, and roar,” replied hir. Piclnvick. 
“ It’s quite impossible that they can mind it much.” 

“Ah, that’s just the wery thing, sir,” rejoined Sam, they don’t mind it; it’s 
a regular holiday to them — all porter and skittles. It’s the t’other vuns as gets 
done over, vith this sort o’ thing : them down-hearted fellers as can’t svig avay at 
the beer, nor play at skittles neither ; them as vould pay if they could, and gets 
low by being boxed up. I’ll tell you wot it is, sir; them as is always a idhn’ in 
public houses it don’^ damage at all, and them as is alvays a workin’ wen they 
can, it damages too much. ‘ It’s unekal,’ as my father used to say wen his grog 
worn’t made half-and-half : ‘ It’s unekal, and that’s the fault on it.’ ” 

“ I think you’re right, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, after a few moments’ reflection, 
“quite right.” 

“P’raps, now and then, there’s some honest people as likes it,” obsen^ed 
Mr. Weller, m a ruminative tone, “ but I never heerd o’ one as I can call to mind, 
’cept the little dirty -faced man in the brown coat ; and that Avas force of habit.” 

“And who was he ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Wy, that’s just the wery point as nobody never know’d,” replied Sam. 

“ But what did he do 

“ Wy he did wot many men as has been much better know’d has done in their 
time, sir,” replied Sam, “ he run a match agin the constable, and vun it.” 

“ In other words, I suppose,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ he got into debt.” 

“Just that, sir,” replied Sam, “and in course o’ time he come here in con- 
sekens. It warn’t much — execution for nine pound nothin’, multiplied by five for 
costs ; but hows’ever here he stopped for seventeen year. If he got any wrinkles 
in his face, they was stopped up vith the dirt, for both the dirty face and the brown 
coat wos just the same at the end o’ that time as they wos at the beginnin’. He 
wos a wery peaceful inoffendin’ little creetur, and wos alvays a bustlin’ about for 
somebody, or playin’ rackets and never vinnin’ ; till at last the turnkeys they got 
quite fond on him, and he wos in the lodge ev’ry night, a chattering vith ’em, and 
tellin’ stories, and all that ’ere. Vun night he wos in there as usual, along vith a 
wery old friend of his, as wos on the lock, ven he says all of a sudden, ‘ I ain’t seen 
the market outside. Bill,’ he says (Fleet Market wos there at that time) — ‘ I ain’t 
seen the market outside. Bill,’ he says, ‘ for seventeen year.’ ‘ I know yon ain’t,’ 
says tlie turnkey, smoking his pipe. ‘ I should like to see it for a minit. Bill, ’ he 
«ays. ‘Wery probable,’ says the turnkey, smoldng his pipe wery fierce, auo 


The Pickwick Club, 


making believe he wam’t up to wot the little man wanted. ‘ Bill,’ says the little 
man, more abrupt than afore, ‘ I’ve got the fancy in my head. Let me see the 
publ streets once more afore I die ; and if I ain’t struck with apoplexy. I’ll be 
bacli in five minits by the clock.’ ‘ And wot ’ud become o’ me if you wos struck 
with apoplexy.?’ said the turnkey. ‘ Wy,’ says the little creetur, ‘whoever found 
me, ’ud bring me home, for I’ve got my card in my pocket. Bill,’ he says, 

‘ No. 20, Coft'ee-room Flight :’ and that wos true, sure enough, for wen he wanted 
to make the acquaintance of any new comer, he used to pull out a little limp card 
vith them words on it and nothin’ else ; in consideration of vich, he wos alvays 
callcl Number Tventy. The turnkey takes a fixed look at him, and at last he says 
in a solemn manner, ‘Tventy,’ he says, ‘I’ll trust you; you won’t get your old 
frier- 1 into trouble.’ ‘ No, my boy ; I hope I’ve somethin’ better behind here,’ 
says the little man; and as he said it he hit his little veskit weiy hard, and 
then a tear started out o’ each eye, which wos wery extraordinary, for it wos 
supposed as water never touched his face. He shook the turnkey by the hand ; 
out he vent ” 

“And never came back again,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Wrong for vunce, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, “ for back he come, two minits 
afore the time, a bilin’ with rage : sayin’ how he’d been nearly run over by a 
hackney-coach : that he wam’t used to it : and he was blowed if he wouldn’t 
write to the Lord Mayor. They got him pacified at last ; and for five years arter 
that, he never even so much as peeped out o’ the lodge-gate.” 

“ At the expiration of that time he died, I suppose,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ No he didn’t, sir,” replied Sam. “ He got a curiosity to go and taste the 
beer at a new public-house over the way, and it wos such a wery nice parlour, 
that he took it into his head to go there every night, wich he did for a long time, 
always cornin’ back reg’lar about a quarter of an hour afore the gate shut, wich 
wos all wery snug and comfortable. At last he began to get so precious jolly, 
that he used to forget how the time vent, or care nothin’ at all about it, and he 
vent on gettin’ later and later, till vun night his old friend wos just a shuttin’ the 
gate — had turned the key in fact — wen he come up. ‘ Hold hard, Bill,’ he says. 

‘ Wot, ain't you come home yet, Tventy .?’ says the turnkey, ‘ I thought you wos 
in, long ago.’ ‘ No I wasn’t,’ says the little man, vith a smile. ‘ Well then. I’ll 
tell you wot it is, my friend,’ says the turnkey, openin’ the gate wery slow and 
sulky, ‘ it’s my ’pinion as you’ve got into bad company o’ late, which I’m wery 
Sony to see. Now, I don’t wish to do nothing harsh,’ he says, ‘ but if you can’t 
confine yourself to steady circles, and find your vay back at reglar hours, as sure 
as you’re a standin’ there. I’ll shut you out altogether!’ The little man was 
seized vith a wiolent fit o’ tremblin’, and never vent outside the prison walls arter- 
vards ! ” 

As Sam concluded, Mr. Pickwick slowly retraced his steps down stairs. After 
a few thoughtful turns in the Painted Ground, which, as it was now dark, was 
nearly deserted, he intimated to Mr. Weller that he thought it high time for him 
to withdraw for the night ; requesting him to seek a bed in some adjacent public- 
house, and return early in the morning, to make anangements for the removal of 
his master’s wardrobe from the George and Vulture. This request Mr. Samuel 
Weller prepared to obey, with as good a grace as he could assume, but with a 
very considerable show of reluctance nevertheless. He even went so far as to 
essay sundry ineffectual hints regarding the expediency of stretching himself on 
the gravel for that night ; but finding Mr. Pickwick obstinately deaf to any such 
suggestions, finally vfithdrew. 

There is no disguising the fact that Mr. Pickwick felt very low-spirited and 
Uncomfortable ; not for lack of society, for the prison was very full, and a bottla 


Sleeping and Waking, 


359 


of ^ne would at once have purchased the utmost good-fellowship of a few choice 
spirits, without any more formal ceremony of introduction ; but he was alone in 
the coarse vulgar crowd, and felt the depression of spirit and sinking of heart, 
naturally consequent on the reflection that he was cooped and caged up, 
without a prospect of liberation. As to the idea of releasing himself by minis- 
tering to the sharpness of Dodson and Fogg, it never for an instant entered 
his thoughts. 

In this frame of mind he turned again into the coffee-room gallery, and walked 
slowly to and fro. The place was intolerably dirty, and the smell of tobacco- 
smoke perfectly suffocating. There was a perpetual slamming and banging of 
doors as the people went in and out ; and the noise of their voices and footsteps 
echoed and re-echoed through the passages constantly. A young woman, with 
a child in her arms, who seemed scarcely able to crawl, from emaciation and 
misery, was walking up and down the passage in conversation Avith her husband, 
who had no other place to see her in. As they passed Mr. Pickwick, he could 
hear the female sob ; and once she burst into such a passion of grief, that she was 
compelled to lean against the wall tor support, while the man took the child in 
his arms, and tried to soothe her. 

Mr. Pickwick’s heart was really too full to bear it, and he went up stairs to bed. 

Now, although the w'arden’s room was a veiy uncomfortable one (being, in 
eveiy point of decoration and convenience, several hundred degrees inferior to the 
common infirmary of a county gaol), it had at present the merit of being wholly 
deserted save by Mr. Pickwick himself. So, he sat down at the foot of his little 
iron bedstead, and began to wonder how much a year the warden made out of 
the dirty room. Having satisfied himself, by mathematical calculation, that the 
apartment was about equal in annual varlue to the freehold of a small street in the 
suburbs of London, he took to wondering what possible temptation could have 
induced a ding\'-looking fly that was crawling over his pantaloons, to come into 
a close prison, when he had the choice of so many aiiy situations — a course of 
meditation which led him to the irresistible conclusion that the insect was mad. 
After settling this point, he began to be conscious that he was getting sleepy ; 
whereupon he took his nightcap out of the pocket in which he had had the pre- 
caution to stow it in the morning, and, leisurely undressing himself, got into bed, 
and fell asleep. 

“ Bravo ! Heel over toe — cut and shuffle — pay away at it. Zephyr ! I’m 
smothered if the Opera House isn’t your proper hemisphere. Keep it up ! 
Hooray ! ” These expressions, delivered in a most boisterous tone, and accom- 
panied with loud peals of laughter, roused Mr. Pickwick from one oi those sound 
slumbers which, lasting in reality some half hour, seem to the sleeper to have 
been protracted for three weeks or a month. 

The voice had no sooner ceased than the room was shaken with such violence 
that the windows rattled in their frames, and the bedsteads trembled again. Mr. 
Pickwick started up, and remained for some minutes fixed in mute astonishment 
at the scene before him. 

On the floor of the room, a man in a broad-skirted green coat, with corderoy 
knee smalls and grey cotton stockings, was performing the most popular steps of 
a hornpipe, with a slang and burlesque caricature of grace and lightness, which, 
combined with the very appropriate character of his costume, was inexpressibly 
absurd. Another man, evidently very drunlc, who had probably been tumbled 
into bed by his companions, was sitting up between the sheets, warbling as much 
as he could recollect of a comic song, with the most intensely sentimental 
feeling and expression ; while a third, seated on one of the bedsteads, wa.>» 
applauding both performers with the air of a profound connoisseur, and en- 


300 


The Pickwick Club, 


couraging them by such ebullitions of feeling as had already roused Mr. Pickwick 
from his sleep. 

This last man was an admirable specimen of a class of gentry which never can 
be seen in full perfection but in such places ; — they may be met with, in an 
imperfect state, occasionally about stable-yards and public-houses ; but they 
never attain their full bloom except in these hot-beds, which would almost seem 
to be considerately provided by the Legislature for the sole purpose of rearing 
them. 

He was a tall fellow, with an olive complexion, long dark hair, and very thick 
bushy whiskers meeting under his chin. He wore no neckerchief, as he had been 
playing rackets all day, and his open shirt collar displayed their full luxuriance. 
On his head he wore one of the common eighteenpenny French skull-caps, with 
a gawdy tassel dangling therefrom, very happily in keeping Avith a common fustian 
coat. His legs : which, being long, were afflicted with weakness : graced a pair 
of Oxford-mixture trousers, made to show the full symmetry of those limbs. 
Being somewhat negligently braced, however, and, moreover, but imperfectly 
buttoned, they fell in a series of not the most graceful folds over a pair of shoes 
sufficiently down at heel to display a pair of very soiled white stockings. There 
was a rakish, vagabond smartness, and a kind of boastful rascality, about the whole 
man, that was worth a mine of gold. 

This figure was the first to perceive that Mr. Pickwick was looking on ; upon 
which he winked to the Zephyr, and entreated him, with mock gravity, not tr 
wake the gentleman. 

“Why, bless the gentleman’s honest heart and soul!” said the Zephyr, 

turning round and affecting the extremity of surprise ; “ the gentleman is awake. 

Hem, Shakespeare ! How do you do, sir ? How is Mary and Sarah, sir } and 

the dear old lady at home, sir ? Will you have the kindness to put my com- 

pliments into the first little parcel you’re sending that way, sir, and say that I 
would have sent ’em before, only I was afraid they might be broken in the 
waggon, sir } ” 

“Don’t overwhelm the gentleman with ordinary civilities when you see he’s 
anxious to have something to drink,” said the gentleman with the whiskers, with 
a jocose air. “ Why don’t you ask the gentleman what he’ll take } ” 

“Dear me, I quite forgot,” replied the other. “What will you take, sir ? 
Will you take port wine, sir, or sherry wine, sir 1 I can recommend the ale, sir ; 
or perhaps you’d like to taste the porter, sir ? Allow me to have the felicity of 
hanging up your nightcap, sir.” 

With this, the speaker snatched that article of dress from Mr. Pickwick’s head, 
and fixed it in a twinkling on that of the drunken man, who, firmly impressed with 
the belief that he was delighting a numerous assembly, continued to hammer away 
at the comic song in the most melancholy strains imaginable. 

Taking a man’s nightcap from his brow by violent means, and adjusting it on 
the head of an unknown gentleman of dirty exterior, however ingenious a witticism 
in itself, is unquestionably one of those which come under the denomination of 
practical jokes. Viewing the matter precisely in this light, Mr. Pickwuck, without 
the slightest intimation of his purpose, sprang vigorously out of bed, struck the 
Zephyr so smart a blow in the chest as to deprive him of a considerable portion of 
the commodity which sometimes bears his name, and then, recapturing his 
nightcap, boldly placed himself in an attitude of defence. 

“ Now,” said Mr. Pickwick, gasping no less from excitement than from the 
expenditure of so much energy, “ come on — both of you — both of you ! ” With 
this liberal invitation the worthy gentleman communicated a revolving motion to 
his clenched fists, by way of appalling his antagonists with a display of science. 


// Good Understanding effected. ^561 

It might have been Mr. Pickwick’s very unexpected gallantry, or it might have 
been the complicated manner in which he had got himself out of bed, and fallen 
all in a mass upon the hornpipe man, that touched his adversaries. Touched 
they Avere ; for, instead of then and there making an attempt to commit man- 
slaughter, as Mr. Pickwick implicitly believed they would have done, they paused, 
stared at each other a short time, and finally laughed outright. 

“ Well ; you’re a trump, and I like you all the better for it,” said the Zephyr. 
“ Now jump into bed again, or you’ll catch the rheumatics. No malice, I hope 
said the man, extending a hand the size of the yellow clump of fingers M^hich 
sometimes swings over a glover’s door. 

“ Certainly not,” said hlr. Pickwick with great alacrity ; for, now that the ex- 
citement was over, he began to feel rather cool about the legs. 

“Allow me the honour,” said the gentleman with the whiskers, presenting his 
dexter hand, and aspirating the h. 

“With much pleasure, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick; and having executed a very 
long and solemn shake, he got into bed again. 

“ My name is Smangle, sir,” said the man with the whiskers. 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Pickwdek. 

“Aline is Alivins,” said the man in the stockings. 

“ I am delighted to hear it, sir,” said Air. Pickwick. 

“ Hem,” coughed Air. Smangle. 

“ Did you speak, sir ? ” said Air. Pickwick. 

“No, I did not, sir,” said Air. Smangle. 

“I thought you did, sir,” said Air. Pickwick. 

All this was very genteel and pleasant ; and, to make matters still more com- 
fortable, Air. Smangle assured Mr. Pickwick a great many times that he enter- 
tained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman ; which sentiment, 
indeed, did him infinite credit, as he could be in no wise supposed to understand 
them. 

“Are you going through the Court, sir ? ” inquired Mr. Smangle. 

“ Thiough the what ? ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Through the Court — Portugal Street — the Court for the Relief of youknow.” 

“ Oh, no,” replied Air. Pic&vick. “No, I am not.” 

“ Going out, perhaps ? ” suggested Alivins. 

“ I fear not,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ I refuse to pay some damages, and am 
here in consequence.” 

“ Ah,” said Air. Smangle, “ paper has been my ruin.” 

“ A stationer, I presume, sir .? ” said Mr. Pickwick, innocently. 

“Stationer! No, no; confound and curse me I Not so low as that. No 
trade. When I say paper, I mean bills.” 

“ Oh, you use the word in that sense. I see,” said Air. Pickwick. 

“Damme! A gentleman must expect reverses,” said Smangle. “What of 
that.? Here am I in the Fleet Prison. Well; good. What then? I’m none 
the w'orse for that, am I ? ” 

“Not a bit,” replied Air. Mivins. And he was quite right ; for, so far from 
Air. Smangle being any the worse for it, he was something the better, inasmuch 
as to qualify himself for the place, he had attained giatuitous possession of 
certain articles of jewellery, which, long before that, had found their way to the 
pawnbroker’s. 

“Well; but come,” said Mr. Smangle; “this is dry work. Let’s rinse our 
mouths with a drop of burnt sherry ; the last comer shall stand it, Mivins shall 
fetch it, and I’ll help to drink it. That’s a fair and gentlemanlike dm lion of 
labour, any how. Curse me ! ” 


The Pickwick Club. 


$6z 

Unwilling to hazard another quarrel, Mr. Pickwick gladlj assented to the pro* 
position, and consigned the money to i\Ir. Mivins, who, as it was nearly eleven 
o’clock, lost no time in repairing to the coffee-room on his eivand. 

“ I say,” whispered Smangle, the moment his friend had left the room ; “ what 
did you give him 

“ Half a sovereign,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ He’s a devilish pleasant gentlemanly dog,” said Mr. Smangle ; — “ infernal 

pleasant. I don’t know anybody more so ; but ” Here Mr. Smangle stopped 

short, and shook his head dubiously. 

“You don’t think there is any probability of his appropriating the money to his 
own use ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Oh, no ! Mind, I don’t say that ; I expressly say that he’s a devilish gentle- 
manly fellow,” said Mr. Smangle. “But I think, perhaps, if somebody went 
down, just to see that he didn’t dip his beak into the jug by accident, or make 
some confounded mistake in losing the money as he came up stairs, it would be as 
well. Here, you sir, just run down stairs, and look after that gentleman, will 
you ?” 

This request was addressed to a little timid-looking nervous man, whose 
appearance bespoke gi-eat poverty, and who had been crouching on his bedstead 
all this while, apparently stupified by the novelty of his situation. 

“You know where the coffee-room is,” said Smangle; “just run down, and 
tell that gentleman you’ve come to help him up with the jug. Or — stop — I’ll tell 
you what — I’ll tell you how we’ll do him,” said Smangle, with a cunning look. 

“How.?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Send down word that he’s to spend the change in cigars. Capital thought. 
Run and tell him that ; d’ye hear ? They shan’t be wasted,” continued Smangle, 
turning to Mr. Pickwick. “/’// smoke em.” 

This manoeuvering was so exceedingly ingenious, and, withal, performed with 
such immovable composure and coolness, that Mr. Pickwick would have had no 
wish to disturb it, even if he had had the power. In a short time Mr. Mivins 
returned, bearing the sherry, which Mr. Smangle dispensed in two little cracked 
mugs : considerately remarking, with reference to himself, that a gentleman must 
not be particular under such circumstances, and that, for his part, he was not too 
proud to drink out of the jug. In which, to show his sincerity, he forthwith 
pledged the company in a draught which half emptied it. 

An excellent understanding having been by these means promoted, Mr. Smangle 
proceeded to entertain his hearers with a relation of divers romantic adventures 
in which he had been from time to time engaged, involving various interesting 
anecdotes of a thorough-bred horse, and a magnificent Jewess, both of surpassing 
beauty, and much coveted by the nobility and gentry of these kingdoms. 

Long bef< ire these elegant extracts from the biography of a gentleman, were 
concluded, Mr. Mivins had betaken himself to bed, and had set in snoring for the 
night : leaving the timid stranger and ^Ir. Pickwick to the full benefit of 
Mr. Smangle’s experiences. 

Nor were the two last-named gentlemen as much edified as they might have 
been, by the moving passages nairated. Mr. Pickwick had been in a state of 
slumber for some time, when he had a faint perception of the drunken man burst- 
ing out afresh with the comic song, and receiving from Mr. Smangle a gentle 
intimation, through the medium of the water jug, that his audience were not musi- 
cally disposed. Mr. Pickwick then once again dropped off to sleep, with a confused 
consciousness that Mr. Smangle was still engaged in relating a long story, thft 
chief po’»'t of which appeared to be, that, on some occasion particularly stated 
and scc foitk, he had “ done ” a bill and a gentleman at the same time. 


Clean Clothes. 


J63 


CHAPTER XLII. 

ULUSTRATIVE, LIKE THE PRECEDING ONE, OF THE OLD PROVERB, THAT 
ADVERSITY BRINGS A MAN ACQUAINTED WITH STEANGE BED-FELLOWS. 
LIKEWISE CONTAINING MR. PICKWICK’S EXTRAORDINARY AND STARTLING 
ANNOUNCEMENT TO MR. SAMUEL WELLER. 

When Mr. PickYack opened his eyes next morning, the first object upon which 
they rested, was Samuel Weller, seated upon a small black portmanteau, intently 
regarding, apparently in a condition of profound abstraction, the stately figure of 
the dashing Mr. Smangle : while Mr. Smangle himself, who was already partially 
dressed, was seated on his bedstead, occupied in the desperately hope] ess attempt 
of staring Mr. Weller out of countenance. We say desperately hopeless, because 
Sara, with a comprehensive gaze which took in Mr. Smangle’s cap, feet, head, 
face, legs, and whiskers, all at the same time, continued to look steadily on, with 
every demonstration of lively satisfaction, but with no more regard to Mr. Smangle’s 
personal sentiments on the subject than he would have displayed had he been 
inspecting a wooden statue, or a straw-embowelled Guy Faux. 

“ Well ; will you know me again said Mr. Smangle, with a frown. 

“ I’d svear to you anyveres, sir,” replied Sam, cheerfully. 

“ Don’t be impertinent to a gentleman, sir,” said Mr. Smangle. 

“ Not on no account,” replied Sam. “ If you’ll tell me wen he wakes. I’ll be 
upon the wery best extra-super behaviour ! ” This obseiYation, having a remote 
tendency to imply that Mr. Smangle was no gentleman, kindled his ire. 

“Mivins !” said Mr. Smangle, with a passionate air. 

“ What’s the office replied that gentleman from his couch. 

“ Who the devil is this fellow ?” 

“’Gad,” said Mr. Mivins, looking lazily out from under the bed-clothes, “I 
ought to ask you that. Hasn’t he any business here ?” 

“ No,” replied Mr. Smangle. 

“ Then knock him down stairs, and tell him not to presume to get up till I come 
and kick him,” rejoined Mr. Mivins ; with this prompt advice that excellent gen- 
tleman again betook himself to slumber. 

The conversation exhibiting these unequivocal symptoms of verging on the 
personal, Mr. Pickwick deemed it a fit point at which to interpose. 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Sir,” rejoined that gentleman. 

“ Has anything new occurred since last night?” 

“ Nothin’ partickler, sir,” replied Sam, glancing at Mr. Smangle’s whiskers ; 
“ the late prewailance of a close and confined atmosphere has been raythei 
favourable to the growth of veeds, of an alarmin’ and sangvinary natur ; but vith 
that ’ere exception things is quiet enough.” 

“ I shall get up,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ give me some clean things.” 

Whatever hostile intentions Mr. Smangle might have entertained, his thoughts 
were speedily diverted by the unpacking of the portmanteau ; the contents of 
which, appeared to impress him at once with a most favourable opinion, not only 
of Mr. Pickwick, but of Sam also, who, he took an early opportunity of declar- 
ing in a tone of voice loud enough for that eccentric personage to overhear, was 
a regular thorough-bred original, and consequently the very man after his oyh 
heart. As to Mr. Pickwick, the affection he conceived for him knew no limits 

“ Now is tliere anything I can do for you, my dear sir ?” said Smangle. 

“ Nothing hat I am aware of, I am obliged to you,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 


The Pickwick Club. 


3^54 

“No linen that you want sent to the washerwoman’s ? I know a delightial 
washerwoman outside, that comes for my things twice a week ; and, by Jove i— 
how devilish lucky ! — this is the day she calls. Shall I put any of those little 
things up with mine ? Don’t say anything about the trouble. Confound and curse 
it ! if one gentleman under a cloud, is not to put himself a little out of the way 
to assist another gentleman in the same condition, what’s human nature 

Thus spake Mr. Smangle, edging himself meanwhile as near as possible to the 
portmanteau, and beaming forth looks of the most fervent and disinterested 
friendship. 

“ There’s nothing you want to give out for the man to brush, my dear creature, 
is there } ” resumed Smangle. 

“Nothin’ whatever, my fine feller,” rejoined Sam, taking the reply into his 
own mouth. “ P’raps if vun of us wos to brush, without troubling the man, it ’ud 
be more agi eeable for all parties, as the schoolmaster said wen the young gentle- 
man objected to being flogged by the butler.” 

“ And there’s nothing that I can send in my little box to the washerwoman’s, 
is there .? ” said Smangle, turning from Sam to Mr. Pickwick, with an air of some 
discomfiture. 

“Nothin’ whatever, sir,” retorted Sam; “I’m afeerd the little box must be 
chock full o’ your own as it is.” 

This speech was accompanied with such a very expressive look at that particular 
portion of Mr. Smangle’s attire, by the appearance of which the skill of laundi esses 
in getting up gentlemen’s linen is generally tested, that he was fain to turn upon 
his heel, and, for the present at any rate, to give up all design on Mr. Pickwick’s 
purse and wardrobe. He accordingly retired in dudgeon to the racket-ground, 
where he made a light and wholesome breakfast on a couple of the cigars which 
had been purchased on the previous night. 

Mr. Mivins. who was no smoker, and whose account for small articles of chan- 
dlery had also reached down to the bottom of the slate, and been “ carried over” 
to the other side, remained in bed, and, in his own words, “ took it out in sleep.” 

After breakfasting in a small closet attached to the coffee-room, which bore the 
imposing title of the Snuggery; the temporaiy inmate of which, in consideration 
of a small additional charge, had the unspeakable advantage of overhearing all 
the conversation in the coffee-room aforesaid; and after dispatching Mr. Weller 
on some necessary errands, Mr. Pickwick repaired to the Lodge, to consult Mr. 
Roker concerning his future accommodation. 

“ Accommodation, eh } ” said that gentleman, consulting a large book. “ Plenty 
of that, Mr. Pickvick. Your chummage ticket will be on twenty-seven, in the thii'd.” 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ My what, did you say .?” 

“ Your chummage ticket,” replied Mr. Roker ; “ you’re up to that ?” 

“Not quite,” replied I^Ir. Pickwick, with a smile. 

“Why,” said Air. Roker, “it’s as plain as Salisbury. You’ll have a chum- 
mage ticket upon twenty-seven in the third, and them as is in the room will be 
your chums.” 

“Are there many of them inquired Air. Pickwick, dubiously. 

“Three,” replied Mr. Roker. 

Air. Pickwick coughed. 

“ One of ’em’s a parson,” said Mr. Roker, filling up a little piece of paper as he 
spake ; “ another’s a butcher.” 

“Eh?” exclaimed Air. Pickwick. 

“ A butcher,” repeated Air. Roker, giving the nib of his pen a tap on the deslc 
to cure it of a disinclination to mark. “A^at a thorough-paced goer he used 
to be sure-ly ! Yon remember Tom Martin, Neddy?” said Rckei, appealing to 


Looking for a Lodging, 365 

another man in the lodge, who was paring the mud off his shoes with a five-and' 
twenty bladed pocket knife. 

“/ should think so,” replied the party addressed, with a strong emphasis on the 
personal pronoun. 

“ Bless my dear eyes !” said Mr. Roker, shaking his head slowly from side to 
side, and gazing abstractedly out of the grated windo^vs before him, as if he were 
fondly recalling some peaceful scene of his early youth ; “it seems but yesterday 
that he whopped the coal-heaver down Fox-under-the-Hill by the wharf there. I 
think I can see him now, a coming up the Strand between the two street-keepers, 
a little sobered by the bruising, with a patch o’ winegar and brown paper over his 
right eyelid, and that ’ere lovely bulldog, as pinned the little boy arterwards, a 
following at his heels. What a rum thing Time is, ain’t it, Neddy 

The gentleman to whom these observations were addressed, who appeared of 
a taciturn and thoughtful cast, merely echoed the inquiry; Mr. Roker, shaking off 
the poetical and gloomy train of thought into which he had been betrayed, de- 
scended to the common business of life, and resumed his pen. 

“ Do you know what the third gentleman is }" inquired Mr. Pickwick, not very 
much gratified by this description of his future associates. 

“What is that Simpson, Neddy.?” said Mr. Roker, turning to his companion. 

“ What Simpson .?” said Neddy. 

“Why him in twenty-seven in the third, that this gentleman’s going to be 
chummed on.” 

“ Oh, him !” replied Neddy; “he ’s nothing exactly. He was a horse chaun- 
ter : he’s a leg now.” 

“Ah, so I thought,” rejoined Mr. Roker, closing the book, and placing the 
small piece of paper in Mr. Pickwick’s hands. “That’s the ticket, sir.” 

Ver}^ much perplexed by this summary disposition of his person, Mr. Pickwick 
walked back into the prison, revolving in his mind what he had better do. Con- 
vinced, however, that before he took any other steps it would be advisable to see, 
and hold personal converse with, the three gentlemen with whom it was proposed 
to quarter him, he made the best of his way to the third flight. 

After groping about in the gallery for some time, attempting in the dim light 
to decipher the numbers on the different doors, he at length appealed to a potboy, 
who happened to be pursuing his morning occupation of gleaning for pewter. 

“Which is twenty-seven, my good fellow.?” said Mr. Pickudek. 

“Five doors further on,” replied the potboy. “There’s the likeness of a man 
being hung, and smoking a pipe the while, chalked outside the door.” 

Guided by this direction, Mr. Pickwick proceeded slowly along the gallery until 
he encountered the “ portrait of a gentleman,” above described, upon whose coun- 
tenance he tapped, with the knuckle of his fore-finger — gently at first, and then 
audibly. After repeating this process several times without effect, he ventured to 
open the door and peep in. 

There was only one man in the room, and he was leaning out of window as far 
he could without overbalancing himself, endeavouring, with great perseverance, 
to spit upon the crown of the hat of a personal friend on the parade below. As 
neither speaking, coughing, sneezing, knocking, nor any other ordinary mode of 
attracting attention, made this person aware of the presence of a visitor, Mr. 
Pickwick, after some delay, stepped up to the window, and pulled him gently by 
the coat-tail. The individual brought in his head and shoulders with great swift- 
ness, and surveying Mr. Pickwick from head to foot, demanded in a surly ton« 
what the — something beginning with a capital H — he wanted. 

“ I believe,” said Mr. Pickwick, consulting his ticket, “ I believe this is twenty- 
seven in the third ? ” 


366 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Well ?” replied the gentleman. 

“ I have come here in consequence of receiving this bit of paper,” rejoined Air. 
Pickwick. 

“ Hand it over,” said the gentleman. 

Air. Pickwick complied. 

“ I think Roker might have chummed you somewhere else,” said Air Simpson 
.(for it was the leg), after a very discontented sort of a pause. 

Air. Pickwick thought so also ; but, under all the circumstances, he considered 
it a matter of sound policy to be silent. 

Air. Simpson mused for a few moments after this, and then, thrusting his head 
out of the window, gave a shrill whistle, and pronounced some word aloud, several 
times. What the word was. Air. Pickwick could not distinguisli ; but he rather 
inferred that it must be some nickname which distinguished Air. Alartin : from the 
fact of a great number of gentlemen on the ground below, immediately proceeding 
to cry “Butcher !” in imitation of the tone in which that useful class of society 
are wont, diurnally, to make their presence known at area railings. 

Subsequent occuirences confirmed the accuracy of Air. Pickwick’s impression ; 
for, in a few seconds, a gentleman, prematurely broad for his years : clothed in a 
professional blue jean frock, and top-boots with circular toes : entered the room 
nearly out of breath, closely followed by another gentleman in very shabby black, 
and a seal-skin cap. The latter gentleman, who fastened his coat all the way up 
to his chin by means of a pin and a button alternately, had a veiy coarse red lace, 
and looked like a drunken chaplain ; which, indeed, he was. 

These two gentlemen having by turns perused Mr. Pickwfick’s billet, the one 
expressed his opinion that it was “a rig,” and the other his conviction that it was 
“a go.” Having recorded their feelings in these very intelligible terms, they 
looked at Air. Pickwick and each other in awkward silence. 

“ It’s an aggravating thing, just as we got the beds so snug,” said the chaplain, 
looking at three dirty mattrasses, each rolled up in a blanket : which occupied one 
comer of the room during the day, and fonned a kind of slab, on which were 
placed an old cracked basin, ewer, and soap-dish, of common yellow earthenware, 
with a blue flower : “ Very aggravating.” 

Air. Alartin expressed the same opinion in rather stronger terms ; Air. Simpson, 
after having let a variety of expletive adjectives loose upon society without any 
substantive to accompany them, tucked up his sleeves, and began to wash the 
greens for dinner. 

While this was going on, Mr. Pickwick had been eyeing the room, which was 
filthily dirty, and smelt intolerably close. There was no vestige of either carpet, 
curtain, or blind. There was not even a closet in it. Unquestionably there weie 
but few things to put away, if there had been one ; but, however few in number, 
or small in individual amount, still, remnants of loaves and pieces of cheese, and 
damp towels, and scrags of meat, and articles of wearing apparel, and mutilated 
crockery, and bellow's without nozzles, and toasting-forks without prongs, do 
present somewhat of an uncomfortable appearance when they are scattered about 
the floor of a small apartment, which is the common sitting and sleeping room of 
three idle men. 

“ I suppose this can be managed somehow,” said the butcher, after a pretty 
long silence. “ WTiat will you take to go out ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon,” replied Air. Pickwick. “ What did you say ? I hardly 
understand you.” 

“What wiU you take to be paid out.?” said the butcher, “The regtilai 
chummage is two-and-six. WiU you take three bob ? ” 

“ — And a bender,” suggested the clerical gentleman. 


Lodging Found at Last. 


367 

“ Well, I don’t mind that ; it’s only twopence a-piece more,” said Mr. Martin. 

“What do you say, now ? We’ll pay you out for tliree-and-sixpence a week. 
Come ! ” 

“ And stand a gallon of beer down,” chimed in Mr. Simpson. “ There ! ” 

“And drink it on the spot,” said the chaplain. “Now !” 

“ I really am so wholly ignorant of the rules of this place,” returned Mr. Pick- 
wick, “ that I do not yet comprehend you. Caul live any where else ? I thought 
I could not.” 

At this inquiry Mr. Martin looked, with a countenance of excessive surprise, at 
his two friends, and then each gentleman pointed with his right thumb over his 
left shoulder. This action, imperfectly described in words by the very feeble 
term of “ over the left,” when performed by any number of ladies or gentlemen 
who are accustomed to act in unison, has a very graceful and airy effect ; iti 
expression is one of light and playful sarcasm. 

“ Can you ! ” repeated Mr. Martin, with a smile of pity. 

“ Well, if 1 knew as little of life as that, I’d eat my hat and swallow the buckle 
whole,” said the clerical gentleman. 

“ So would I,” added the sporting one, solemnly. 

After this introductory preface, the three chums informed Mr. Pickwick, in a 
breath, that money was, in the Fleet, just what money was out of it ; that it would 
instantly procure him almost anything he desired ; and that, supposing he had it, 
and had no objection to spend it, if he only signified his wish to have a room to 
himself, he might take possession of one, furnished and fitted to boot, in half an 
hour’s time. 

With this, the parties separated, very much to their common satisfaction : Mr. 
Pickwick once more retracing his steps to the lodge : and the three companions 
adjourning to the coffee-room, there to spend the five shillings which the clerical 
gentleman had, with admirable prudence and foresight, borrowed of him for the 
purpose. 

“ I knowed it ! ” said Mr. Roker, with a chuckle, when Mr. Pickwick stated the 
object with which he had returned. “ Didn’t I say so, Neddy } ” 

The philosophical owner of the universal penknife, gi owled an affirmative. 

“ I knowed you’d want a room for yourself, bless you ! ” said Mr. Roker. “ Let 
me see. You’ll want some furnitur. You’ll hire that of me, I suppose ? That’s 
the reg’lar thing.” 

“With great pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ There a capital room up in the coffee-room flight, that belongs to a Chancery 
prisoner,” said Mr. Roker. “ It’ll stand you in a pound a-week. I suppose you 
don’t mind that ? ” 

“Not at all,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Just step there with me,” said Roker, taking up his hat with great alacrity ; 
• ‘ the matters’s settled in five minutes. Lord ! why didn’t you say at first that you 
was willing to come down handsome ? ” 

The matter was soon arranged, as the turnkey had foretold. The Chancery 
prisoner had been there long enough to have lost friends, fortune, home, and 
hap]:)iness, and to have acquired the right of having a room to himself. As he 
laboured, however, under the inconvenience of often wanting a morsel of bread, 
he eagerly listened to Mr. Pickwick’s proposal to rent the apartment, and readily 
covenanted and agreed to yield him up the sole and undisturbed possession 
thereof, in consideration of the weekly payment of twenty shillings ; from whicn 
fund he fm-thermore contracted 10 pay out any person or persons that might be 
chummed upon it. 

As they struck the bargain, Mr. Pickwick surveyed him with a painful interest 


368 


The Pickwick Club. 


He was a tall, gaunt, cadaverous man, in an old gieat-coat and slippers * with 
sunken cheeks, and a restless, eager eye. His lips were bloodless, and his bones 
sharp and thin. God help him ! the iron teeth of confinement and privation had 
been slowly filing him down for twenty years. 

“ And where will you live meanwhile, sir } ” said Mr. Pickwick, as he laid the 
amount of the first week’s rent, in advance, on the tottering table. 

The man gathered up the money with a trembling hand, and replied that he 
didn’t know yet ; he must go and see where he could move his bed to. 

“I am afraid sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, laying his hand gently and compassion- 
ately on his arm ; “I am afraid you will have to live in some noisy crowded 
place. Now, pray, consider this room your own when you want quiet, or when 
any of your friends come to see you.” 

“ Friends ! ” interposed the man, in a voice which rattled in his throat. “ If I 
lay dead at the bottom of the deepest mine in the world ; tight screwed dowm and 
soldered in my coffin ; rotting in the dark and filthy ditch that drags its slime 
along, beneath the foundations of this prison ; I could not be more forgotten or 
unheeded than I am here. I am a dead man ; dead to society, without the pity 
they bestow on those whose souls have passed to judgment. Friends to see me / 
My God ! I have sunk, from the prime of life into old age, in this place, and 
there is not one to raise his hand above my bed when I lie dead upon it, and say, 
‘ It is a blessing he is gone ! ’ ” 

The excitement, which had cast an unwonted light over the man’s face, while he 
spoke, subsided as he concluded ; and, pressing his withered hands together in a 
hasty and disordered manner, he shuffled from the room. 

“ Rides rather rusty,” said Mr. Roker, with a smile. “ Ah ! they’re like the 
elephants. They feel it now and then, and it makes ’em wild ! ” 

Having made this deeply-sympathising remark, Mr. Roker entered upon his 
arrangements with such expedition, that in a short time the room was furnished 
with a carpet, six chairs, a table, a sofa bedstead, a tea-kettle, and various small 
articles, on hire, at the very reasonable rate of seven-and-twenty shillings and six- 
pence per week. 

“ Now, is there anything more we can do for you .?” inquired Mr. Roker, look- 
ing round with great satisfaction, and gaily chinking the first week’s hire in his 
closed fist. 

“ Why, yes,” said Mr. Pickwick, who had been musing deeply for some time. 
“ Are there any people here, who run on errands, and so forth ?” 

“ Outside, do you mean inquired Mr. Roker. 

“ Yes. I mean who are able to go outside. Not prisoners.” 

“Yes, there is,” said Roker. “There’s an unfortunate devil, who has got a 
friend on the poor side, that’s glad to do anything of that sort. He’s been running 
odd jobs, and that, for the last two months. Shall I send him 

“If you please,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick. “Stay; no. The poor side, you 
say ? I should like to see it. I’ll go to him myself.” 

The poor side of a debtor’s prison, is, as its name imports, that in which thf 
most miserable and abject class of debtors are confined. A prisoner having de 
dared upon the poor side, pays neither rent nor chummage. His fees, upon 
entering and leaving the gaol, are reduced in amount, and he becomes entitled to 
a share of some small quantities of food : to provide which, a few charitable 
persons have, from time to time, left trifling legacies in their wills. Most of our 
readers will remember, that, until within a very few years past, there was a kind 
of iron cage in the wall of the Fleet Prison, within which was posted some man 
of hungry' looks, who, from time to time, rattled a money-box, and exclaimed in 
ft mournful voice, “ Pray, remember the poor debtors ; pray, remember the poor 


The Pa ir Side. 


3^9 


debtors.” The receipts of this box, when there were any, were divided among the 
poor prisoners ; and the men on the poor side relieved each other in this degrading 
office. 

Although this custom has been abolished, and the cage is- now boarded up, the 
miserable and destitute condition of these unhappy persons remains the same. 
We no longer suffer them to appeal at the prison gates to the charity and com- 
nassior, of the passers by ; but we still leave unhlotted in the leaves of^our statute 
book, for the reverence and admiration of succeeding ages, the just and wholesome 
law which declares that the sturdy felon shall be fed and clothed, and that the 
penniless debtor shall be left to die of starvation and nakedness. This is no fiction. 
Not a week passes over our heads, but, in every one of our prisons for debt, some 
of these men must inevitably expire in the slow agonies of want, if they were not 
relieved by their fellow-prisoners. 

Turning these things in his mind, as he mounted the nairow staircase at the foot 
of which Roker had left him, Mr. Pickwick gradually worked himself to the boil- 
ing-over point ; and so excited was he with his reflections on this subject, that he 
had burst into the room to which he had been directed, before he had any distinct 
recollection, either of the place in which he was, or of the object of his visit. 

The general aspect of the room recalled him to himself at once ; but he had no 
sooner cast his eyes on the figure of a man who was brooding over the dusty fire, 
than, letting his hat fall on the floor, he stood perfectly fixed, and immoveable, 
with astonishment. 

Yes ; in tattered garments, and without a coat ; his common calico shirt, yellow 
and in rags ; his hair hanging over his face ; his features changed with suffering, 
and pinched with famine ; there sat Mr. Alfred Jingle * his head resting on his 
hand, his eyes fixed upon the fire, and his whole appearance denoting misery and 
dejection ! 

Near him, leaning listlessly against the wall, stood a strong-built countryman, 
flicking with a worn-out hunting-whip the top-boot that adorned his right foot : 
his left being (for he dressed by easy stages) thrust into an old slipper. Horses, 
dogs, and drink, had brought him there, pell-mell. There was a rusty spur on tjre 
solitary boot, which he occasionally jerked into the empty air, at the same time 
giving the boot a smart blow, and muttering some of the sounds by which a sports- 
man encourages his horse. He was riding, in imagination, some desperate steeple- 
chase at that moment. Poor wretch ! He never rode a match on the swiftest animal 
in his costly stud, with half the speed at which he had torn along the course that 
ended in the Fleet. 

On the opposite side of the room an old man was seated on a small wooden box, 
with his eyes livetted on the floor, and his face settled into an expression of the 
deepest and most hopeless despair. A young girl — his little grand-daughter — 
was hanging about him ; endeavouring, with a thousand childish devices, to engage 
his attention ; but the old man neither saw nor heard hec. The voice that had 
been music to him, and the eyes that 1-ad been light, fell coldly on his senses. His 
limbs were shaking with disease, and the palsy had fastened on his mind. 

There were two or three other men in the room, congregated in a little knot, 
and noisily talking among themselves. There was a lean and haggard woman, 
too — a prisoner’s wife — who. was watering, with great solicitude, the wretched 
stump of a dried-np, withered plant, which, it was plain to see, could never send 
forth a green leaf again ; — too true an emblem, perhaps, of the office she had come 
there to discharge. 

Such were the objects which presented themselves to Mr. Pickwick’s view, as he 
looked round him in amazement. The noise of some one stumbling hastily into 
the room, roused him. Turning his eyes towards the door, they encountered the 

B B 


370 


The Pickwick Club, 


new comer ; and in him, through his rags and dirt, he recognised the familial 
features of Mr. Job Trotter. 

“ Mr. Pickwick !” exclaimed Job aloud. 

“ Eh said Jingle, starting from his seat. “ Mr. ! So it is — queer place 

— sbange thing — serves me right — very.” Mr. Jingle thrust his hands into the 
place where his trousers pockets used to be, and, dropping his chin upon his breast, 
sank back into his chair. 

Mr. Pickwick was affected ; the two men looked so very miserable. The sharp 
involuntary glance Jingle had cast at a small piece of raw loin of mutton, which 
Job had brought in with him, said more of their reduced state than two hours’ 
explanation could have done. Mr. Pickw’ick looked mildly at Jingle, and said : 

“ I should like to speak to you in private. Will you step out for an instant 

“ Certainly,” said Jingle, rising hastily. “ Can’t step far — no danger of over- 
walking yourself here — Spike park — grounds pretty — romantic, but not extensive 
— open for public inspection — family always in town — housekeeper desperately 
careful — very.” 

“ You have forgotten your coat,” said IMr. Pickwick, as they wallvcd out to the 
staircase, and closed the door after them. 

“ Eh } ” said Jingle. “ Spout — dear relation — uncle Tom — couldn’t help it — 
must eat, you know. Wants of nature — and all that.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” 

“ Gone, my dear sir — last coat — can’t help it. Lived on a pair of boots — v.drole 
fortnight. Silk umbrella — ivory handle — week — fact — honour — ask Job — knows 

it.” 

“ Lived for three weeks upon a pair of boots, and a silk umbrella with an ivoiy 
handle ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had only heard of such things in ship 
wrecks, or read of them in Constable’s Miscellany. 

“ True,” said Jingle, nodding his head. “ Pawnbroker’s shop — duplicates here* 
— small sums — mere nothing — all rascals.” 

“Oh,” said Mr. Pickwick, much relieved by this explanation; “I understand 
yOu. You have pawned your wardrobe.” 

“ Everything — Job’s too — all shirts gone — never mind — saves washing. No- 
thing soon — lie in bed — starv e — die — Inquest — little bone-house — poor prisoner — 
common necessaries — hush it up — gentlemen of the jury — warden’s tradesmen-- 
keep it snug-^natural death — coroner’s order — worldiouse funeral — serv^e him 
right — all over — drop the curtain.” 

Jingle delivered this singular summary of his prospects in life, with his accus- 
tomed volubility, and with various twitches of the countenance to counterfeit 
smiles. Mr. Pickwick easily perceived that his recklessness was assumed, and 
looking him full, but not unkindly, in the face, saw that his eyes were moist with tears. 

“ Good fellow,” said jingle, pressing his hand, and turning his head away. 
“ Ungrateful dog— boyish to cry — can’t help it — bad fever— weak— ill— hungry. 
Deserved it all — but suffered much — very.” Wholly unable to keep up appear- 
pces any longer, and perhaps rendered worse by the effort he had made, the de- 
jected stroller sat down on tire stairs, and, covering his face with his hands, sobbed 
like a child. 

“Come, come,” said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable emotion, “we ’ll see 
what can be done, when I know all about the matter. Here, Tob ; where is that 
feUow ? ” 

“ Here, sir,” replied Job, presenting himself on the staircase. We have de- 
scribed him, by-the-bye, as having deeply-sunken eyes, in the best of times. In 
his present state of want and distress, he looked as if those features had gone out 
of tovm altogether. 


Master and Man separated. 


37 * 


]Tere, sir,” cried Job. 

“ Come here, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, trying to look stem, with four large tears 
running down his waistcoat. “ Take that, sir.” 

Take what ? In the ordinary acceptation of such language, it should have been 
a blow. As the world runs, it ought to have been a sound, hearty cuff ; for Mr. 
Pickwick had been duped, deceived, and wronged by the destitute outcast who 
was now wholly in his power. Must we tell the truth } It was something from 
Mr. Pickwick’s waistcoat-pocket, which chinked as it was given into Job’s hand, 
and the giving of which, somehow or other imparted a sparkle to the eye, and a 
swelling to the heart, of our excellent old friend, as he hurried away. 

Sam had returned when Mr. Pickwick reached his own room, and was inspect- 
ing the arrangements that had been made for his comfort, with a kind of grim 
satisfaction which was very pleasant to look upon. Having a decided objection 
to his master’s being there at all, Mr. Weller appeared to consider it a high moral 
duty not to appear too much pleased with anything that was done, said, suggested, 
or proposed. 

“ Well, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Well, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ Pretty comfortable now, eh, Sam ? ” 

“ Pretty veil, sir,” responded Sam, looking round him in a disparaging manner. 

“ Have you seen Mr. Tupman and our other friends } ” 

“Yes, I have seen ’em, sir, and they ’re a cornin’ to-morrow, and wos wery 
much surprised to hear they wam’t to come to-day,” replied Sam. 

“ You have brought the things I wanted } ” 

Mr. Weller in reply pointed to various packages which he had arranged, as 
neatly as he could, in a comer of the room. 

“Very well, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, after a little hesitation; “listen to 
what I am going to say, Sam.” 

“ Cert’nly, sir,” rejoined Mr. Weller, “ fire away, sir.” 

“ I have felt from the first, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, with much solemnity, 
“ that this is not the place to bring a young man to.” 

“ Nor an old ’un neither, sir,” observed Mr. Weller. 

“ You ’re quite right, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ but old men may come 
here, through their own heedlessness and unsuspicion : and young men may be 
brought here by the selfishness of those they serve. It is better for those young 
men, in eveiy point of view, that they should not remain here. Do you under- 
stand me, Sam ? ” 

“ Vy no, sir, I do not,” replied Mr. Weller, doggedly. 

“Tiy, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Veil, sir,” rejoined Sam, after a short pause, “ I think I see your drift ; and if 
1 do see your drift, it ’s my ’pinion that you ’re a cornin’ it a gieat deal too strong, 
as the mail-coachman said to the snow-storm, ven it overtook him.” 

“ I see you comprehend me, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Independently 
of my wish that you should not be idling about a place like this, for years to 
come, I feel that for a debtor in the Fleet to be attended by his man-seiwant 
is a monstrous absurdity. Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ for a time, you must 
leave me.” 

“ Oh, for a time, eh, sir ? ” rejoined Mr. Weller, rather sarcastically. 

“ Yes, for the time that I remain here,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Your wages I 
shall continue to pay. Any one of my three friends will be happy to take you, 
were it only out of respect to me. And if I ever do leave this place, Sam,” added 
.Mr. Pickwick, with assumed cheerfulness: “if I do, I pledge you my word that 
you shall return to me instantly.” 


The Pickwick Club, 


37 ^ 

Now I’ll tell you wot it is, sir,” said Mr. Weller, in a grave and solemn voicCi 
« This here sort o’ thing won’t do at all, so don’t let’s hear no more about it.” 

I am serious, and resolved, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“You air, ah’ you, sir?” inquired Mr. Weller, firmly. “ Wery good, sir. 
Then so am I.” . , 

Thus speaking, Mr. Weller fixed his hat on his head with great precision, and 
abniptly left the room. 

“ Sam ! ” cried Mr. Pickwick, calling after him, “ Sam ! Here ! ” 

But the long galleiy ceased to re-echo the sound of footsteps. Sam Weller was 
gone. 


CHAPTER XLIIT. 

SHOWING HOW MR. SAMUEL WELLER GOT INTO DIFFICULTIES. 

In a lofty room, ill-lighted and worse ventilated, situate in Portugal Street, 
Lincoln’s Inn Fields, there sit nearly the whole year round, one, two, three, or 
four gentlemen in wigs, as the case may be, with little writing desks before them, 
constructed after the fashion of those used by the judges of the land, barring the 
French polish. There is a box of barristers on their right hand ; there is an 
inclosure of insolvent debtors on their left ; and there is an inclined plane of most 
especially dirty faces in their front. These gentlemen are the Commissioners of 
the Insolvent Comt, and the place in which they sit, is the Insolvent Court 
itself. 

It is, and has been, time out of mind, the remarkable fate of this Court to be, 
somehow or other, held and understood, by the general consent of all the destitute 
shabby-genteel people in London, as their common resort, and place of daily 
refuge. It is always full. The steams of beer and spirits perpetually ascend 
to the ceiling, and, being condensed by the heat, roll down the walls like rain ; 
there are more old suits of clothes in it at one time, than will be ofi'ered for sale 
in all Houndsditch in a twelvemonth ; more unwashed skins and grizzly beards 
than all the pumps and shaving-shops between Tyburn and Whitechapel could 
render decent, between sunrise and sunset. 

It must not be supposed that any of these people have the least shadow of 
business in, or the remotest connection with, the place they so indefatigably 
attend. If they had, it would be no matter of surprise, and the singularity of the 
thing would cease. Some of them sleep during the greater part of the sitting ; 
others cany small portable dinners wrapped in pocket-handkerchiefs or sticking 
out of their worn-out pockets, and munch and listen with equal relish ; but 
no one among them was ever known to have the slightest personal interest in 
any case that was ever brought forward. Whatever they do, there they sit from 
the first moment to the last. When it is heavy rainy weather, they all come in, 
wet through ; and at such times the vapours of the Court are like those of a 
fungus-pit. 

A casual visitor might suppose this place to be a Temple dedicated to the 
Genius of Seediness. There is not a messenger or process-seiver attached to it, 
who wears a coat that was made for him ; not a tolerably fresh, or wholesome- 
looking man in the whole establishment, except a little white-headed apple- 
faced tipstaff, and even he, like an ill-conditioned cherry preserved in brandy, 
seems to have artificiallv dried and withered up into a state of preservation te 


Mr. Solomon Pell. 


m 

which he can lay no natural claim. The very barristers’ wigs are ill-powdered, 
and their curls lack crispness. 

But the attorneys, who sit at a large bare table bek w the Commissioners, are, 
after all, the greatest curiosities. The professional establishment of the more 
opulent of these gentlemen, consists of a blue bag and a boy : generally a youth 
of the Jewish persuasion. They have no fixed offices, their legal business being 
transacted in the parlours of public-houses, or the yards of prisons : whither they 
repair in crowds, and canvass for customers after the manner of omnibus cads. 
They are of a greasy and mildewed appearance ; and if they can be said to have 
any vices at all, perhaps drinking and cheating are the most conspicuous among 
them. Their residences are usually on the outskirts of “the Rules,” chiefly 
lying within a circle of one mile from the obelisk in St. George’s Fields. Their 
looks are not prepossessing, and their mannei-s are peculiar. 

Mr. Solomon Pell, one of this learned body, was a fat flabby pale man, 
in a surtout which looked green one minute and brown the next : with a velvet 
collar of the same cameleon tints. His forehead was narrow, his face wide, his 
head large, and his nose all on one side, as if Nature, indignant with the propen- 
sities she observed in him in his birth, had given it an angry tweak which it had 
never recovered. Being short-necked and asthmatic, however, he respired prin- 
cipally through this feature ; so, perhaps, what it wanted in ornament, it made up 
in usefulness. 

“ I ’m sure to bring him through it,” said Mr. Pell. 

“ Are you though } ” replied the person to whom the assurance was pledged. 

“ Certain sure,” replied Pell ; “ but if he ’d gone to any irregular practitioner, 
mind you, I wouldn’t have answered for the consequences.” 

“ Ah ! ” said the other, with open mouth. 

“ No, that I wouldn’t,” said Mr. Pell ; and he pursed up his lips, frowned, and 
shook his head mysteriously. 

Now, the place where this discourse occurred, was the public-house just opposite 
to the Insolvent Court ; and the person with whom it was held, was no other than 
the elder Mr. Weller, who had come there, to comfort and console a friend, whose 
petition to be discharged under the act, was to be that day heard, and whose 
attorney he was at that moment consulting. 

“ And vere is George } ” inquired the old gentleman. 

:Mr. Pell jerked his head in the direction of a back parlour : whither Mr. 'Weller 
at once repairing, was immediately greeted in the warmest and most flattering 
manner by some half-dozen of his professional brethren, in token of their grati- 
fication at his arrival. The insolvent gentleman, who had contracted a speculative 
but imprudent passion for horsing long stages, which had led to his present 
embarrassments, looked extremely well, and was soothing the excitement of his 
feelings with shrimps and porter. 

The salutation between Mr. Weller and his friends was strictly confined to the 
freemasonry of the craft ; consisting of a jerking round of the right wrist, and a 
tossmg of the little finger into the air at the same time. We once knew two 
famous coachmen (they are dead now, poor fellows) who were twins, and between 
whom an unaffected and devoted attachment existed. They passed each other on 
the Dover road, every' day, for twenty-four years, never exchanging any other 
greeting than this ; and yet, when one died, the other pined away, and soon after- 
wards followed him ! 

“ Veil, George,” said Mr. Weller, senior, taking off his upper coat, and seating 
himself with his accustomed gravity. “ How is it ? All right behind, and full 
inside ?” 

All right, old feller,” replied the embarrasstd gentleman. 


374 


The Pickwick Club, 


** Is the grey mare made over to any body ?” inquired Mr. Weller, anxiously. 

George nodded in the affirmative. 

“ Veil, that’s all right,” said Mr. Weller. “ Coach taken care on, also ? ” 

“ Con-signed in a safe quarter,” replied George, wringing tire heads off half-a- 
dozen shrimps, and swallowing them without any more ado. 

“ Wery good, weiy good,” said Mr. Weller. “ Alvays see to the drag ven you 
go down hill. Is the vay-bill all clear and straight for’erd ? ” 

“The schedule, sir,” said Pell, guessing at Mr. Weller’s meaning, “the 
schedule is as plain and satisfactory as pen and ink can make it.” 

Mr. Weller nodded in a manner which bespoke his inward approval of these 
arrangements ; and then, turning to ^Ir. Pell, said, pointing to his friend George : 

“ Ven do you take his cloths off ? ” 

“ Why,” replied Mr. Pell, “ he stands third on the opposed list, and I should 
think it would be his turn in about half an hour. I told my clerk to come over 
and tell us when there was a chance.” 

Mr. Weller surveyed the attorney from head to foot with great admiration, and 
said emphatically ; 

“ And what’ll you take, sir ? ” 

“Why, really,” replied Mr. Pell, “you ’re very . Upon my word and 

honour, I ’m not in the habit of . It’s so very early in the morning, 

that, actually, I am almost . Well, you may bring me three penn’orth ol 

rum, my dear.” 

The officiating damsel, who had anticipated the order before it was given, set 
the glass of spirits before Pell, and retired. 

“ Gentlemen,” said Mr. Pell, looking round upon the company, “ Success to 
your friend ! I don’t like to boast, gentlemen ; it’s not my way ; but I can’t help 
saying, that, if your friend hadn’t been fortunate enough to fall into hands that 

■ but I won’t say what I was going to say. Gentlemen, my service to you.” 

Having emptied the glass in a twinkling, Mr. Pell smacked his lips, and looked 
complacently round on the assembled coachmen, who evidently regarded him as a 
species of divinity. 

** Let me see,” said the legal authority. “ What was I a-saying, gentlemen ? ” 

“ I think you was remarkin’ as you wouldn’t have no objection to another ’o the 
same, sir,” said Mr. Weller, with grave facetiousness. 

“ Ha, ha ! ” laughed Mr. Pell. “ Not bad, not bad. A professional man, too ! 

At this time of the morning, it would be rather too good a . Well, I don’t know, 

my dear — you majy do that again, if j’ou please. Hem ! ” 

This last sound was a solemn and dignified cough, in which Mr. Pell observing 
an indecent tendency to mirth in some of his auditors, considered it due to himself 
to indulge. 

“ The late Lord Chancellor, gentlemen, was yeiy fond of me,” said Mr. Pell. 

“ And wery creditable in him, too,” interposed Mr. Weller. 

“ Hear, hear,” assented Mr. Pell’s client. “ Why shouldn’t he be .? ” 

“ Ah ! Why, indeed ! ” said a very red-faced man, who had said nothing yet, 
and who looked extremely unlikely to say anything more. “ Why shouldn’t he?” 

A murmur of assent ran through the company. 

“ I remember, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pell, “ dining with him on one occasion; — 
there was only us two, but every thing as splendid as if twenty people had been 
expected — the great seal on a dumb-waiter at his right hand, and a man in a bag- 
wig and suit of armour guarding the mace with a drawn sword and silk stockings 
—which is perpetually done, gentlemen, night and day ; when he said, ‘ Pell,’ 
he said, * no false delicacy, Pell. You’re a man of talent ; you can get any body 
^«ugh tKa Insolvent Court, Pell ; and your country should be proud of you * 


Mr. Pell's Noble Friend. 


375 

rhose were his very words. ‘ My Lord,’ I said, ’ you flatter me.’— ‘ Pell,’ he said, 

* if I do, I’m damned.’ ” 

“ Did he say that } ” inquired Mr. Weder. 

He did,” replied Pell. 

“ Veil, then,” said Mr. Weller, “ I say Parliament ought Id ha’ took it up ; and 
if he’d been a poor man, they would ha’ oone it.” 

“ But, my dear friend,” argued Mr. Pell, “it was in confidence.” 

“ In what .? ” said Mr. Weller. 

“ In confidence.” 

“ Oh ! wery good,” replied Mr. Weller, after a little reflection. “ If he damnea 
his-self in confidence, o’ course that was another thing.” 

“ Of course it was,” said Mr. Pell. “ The distinction’s obvious, you will 
perceive.” 

“ Alters the case entirely,” said Mr. Weller. “ Go on, sir.” 

“ No, I will not go on, sir,” said Mr. Pell, in a low and serious tone. “You 
have reminded me, sir, that this conversation was private — private and confidential, 
gentlemen. Gentlemen, d am a professional man. It may be that I am a good 
deal looked up to, in my profession — it may be that I am not. Most people know. 

I say nothing. Observations have already been made, in this room, injurious to 
the reputation of my noble friend. You will excuse me, gentlemen ; I was im- 
prudent. I feel that I have no right to mention this matter without his concurrence. 
Thank you, sir ; thank you.” Thus delivering himself, Mr. Pell thrust his hands 
into his pockets, and, frowning grimly around, rattled tliree-halfpence with temble 
determination. 

This virtuous resolutidn had scarcely been formed, when the boy and the blue 
bag, who were inseparable companions, rushed violently into the room, and said 
(at least the boy did, for the blue bag took no part in the announcement) that the 
case was coming on directly. The intelligence wa^no sooner received than the 
whole party hurried across the street, and began to fight their way into Court — a 
preparatory ceremony, which has been calculated to occupy, in ordinary cases, 
from twenty-five minutes to thirty. 

Mr. Weller, being stout, cast himself at once into the crowd, with the desperate 
hope of ultimately turning up in some place which would suit him. His success 
was not quite equal to his expectations ; for having neglected to take his hat off, 
it was knocked over his eyes by some unseen person, upon whose toes he had 
alighted with considerable force. Apparently, this individual regretted his 
impetuosity immediately afterwards ; for, muttering an indistinct exclamation of 
surprise, he dragged the old man out into the hall, and, after a violent struggle, • 
released his head and face, 

“ Samivel! ” exclaimed Mr. Weller, when he was thus enabled to behold his 
rescuer. 

Sam nodded. 

“ You’re a dutiful and affectionate little boy, you are, ain’t you ? ” said Mr. 
Weller, “ to come a bonnetin’ your father in his old age ? ” 

“ How should I know who you wos ? ” responded the son. “ Do you s’pose I 
svos to tell you by the weight o’ your foot ? ” 

' “Veil, that’s wery true, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, mollified at once; **but 
n^ot are you a doin’ on here ? Your gov’nor can’t do no good here, Sammy. They 
<von’t pass that werdick, they won’t pass it, Sammy.” And Mr. Weller shook 
his head, with legal solemnity. 

“ Wot a perwerse old file it is ! ” exclaimed Sam, alvays a goin’ on about wer 
dicks and alleybis, and that. Who said anything about the werdick ? ” 

Mr. Weller made no repH but once more shook his head most learnedly. 


37 ^ 


The Pickwick Clul. 


“ Leave off rattlin’ that ’ere nob o’ youm, if you don’t want it to come off the 
springs altogether,” said Sam impatiently, “ and behave reasonable. I vent all the 
vay doAvn to the Markis o’ Granby, arter you, last night.” 

“Did you see the Marchioness o’ Granby, Sammy ?” inquired Mr. Weller, 
with a sigh. 

“ Yes, I did,” replied Sam. 

“ How wos the dear creetur a lookin’ ? ” 

“ Wery queer,” said Sam. “ I think she’s a injurin’ herself gradivally vith too 
much o’ that ’ere pine-apple nim, and other strong medicines o’ the same natur.” 

“ You don’t mean that, Sammy } ” said the senior, earnestly. 

“ I do, indeed,” replied the junior. Mr. Weller seized his son’s hand, clasped 
it, and let it fall. There was an expression on his countenance in doing so — not 
of dismay or apprehension, but partaking more of the sweet and gentle character 
of hope. A gleam of resignation, and even of cheerfulness, passed over his face 
too, as he slowly said, “I ain’t quite certain, Sammy; I wouldn’t like to say I 
wos altogether positive, in case of any subsekent disappintment, but I rayther 
think, my boy, I rayther think, that the shepherd’s got the liver complaint ! ” 

“ Does he look bad ? ” inquired Sam. 

“ He’s uncommon pale,” replied his father, “ ’cept about the nose, wich is red- 
der than ever. His appetite is wery so-so, but he imbibes wunderful.” 

Some thoughts of the rum appeared to obtrude themselves on Mr. Weller’s 
mind, as he said this ; for he looked gloomy and thoughtful ; but he very shortly 
recovered, as was testified by a perfect alphabet of winks, in wdiich he was only 
wont to indulge when particularly pleased. 

“Veil, now,” said Sam, “about my affair. Just open them ears o’ yourn, and 
don’t say nothin’ till I’ve done.” With this brief preface, Sam related, as 
succinctly as he could, the last memorable conversation he had had with Mr. 
Pickwick. 

“ Stop there by himself, poor creetur ! ” exclaimed the elder Mr. Weller, “ with- 
out nobody to take his part ! It can’t be done, Samivel, it can’t be done.” 

“ O’ course it can’t,” asserted Sam ; “ I know’d that, afore I came.” 

“AVy, they’ll eat him up alive, Sammy,” exclaimed Mr. Weller. 

Sam nodded his concurrence in the opinion. 

“He goes in rayther raw, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller metaphorically, “and 
he’ll come out, done so ex-ceedin’ brown, that his most familiar friends won’t 
know him. Roast pigeon’s nothin’ to it, Sammy.” 

Again Sam Weller nodded. 

’ “ It oughtn’t to be, Samivel,” said Mr. Weller, gravely. 

“ It mustn’t be,” said Sam. 

“ Cert’nly not,” said Mr. Weller. 

“ Veil now,” said Sam, “ you’ve been a prophecyin’ away, weiy fine, like a red- 
faced Nixon as the sixpenny books gives picters on.” 

“Who wos he, Sammy ? ” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“Never mind who he was,” retorted Sam; “he wam’t a coachman; that’s 
enough for you.” 

“ I know’’d a ostler o’ that name,” said Mr. Weller, musing. 

“ It warn’t him,” said Sam. “ This here gen’l’m’n was a prophet.” 

“ Wot’s a prophet } ” inquired Mr. Weller, looking steinly on his son. 

“ Wy, a man as tells what’s a goin’ to happen,” replied Sam. 

“ I wish I’d know’d him, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “ P’raps he might ha’ 
tlirow’d a small light on that ’ere liver complaint as we wos a speakin’ on, just 
now. Hows’ever, if he’s dead, and ain’t left the bisness to nobody, tliere’s an end 
on it Go on, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, with a .sigh. 


Mr. TVeller becomes a Borrower. 


El 

“Well,” said Sam, “you’ve been a prophecyin’ avay, about wot’ll happen to 
the gov’nor if he’s left alone. Don’t you see any vay p’ takin’ care on him } ” 

“No, I don’t, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, with a reflective visage. 

“ No vay at all ? ” inquired Sam. 

_ “ No vay,” said Mr. Weller, “ unless ” — and a gleam of intelligence lighted up 
his countenance as he sunk his voice to a whisper, and applied his mouth to the 
ear of his offspring: “unless it is getting him out in a tum-up bedstead, unbe- 
known to the turnkeys, Sammy, ordressin’ him up like a old ’ooman vith a green 
wall.” 

Sam Wellei received both of these suggestions with unexpected contempt, and 
again propounded his question. 

“ No,” said the old gentleman ; “ if he von’t let you stop there, I see no vay at 
all. It’s no thoroughfare, Sammy, no thoroughfare.” 

“ Well, then. I’ll tell you wot it is,” said Sam, “ I’ll trouble you for the loan of 
five-and-twenty pound.” 

“ Wot good ’ull that do .? ” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“Never mind,” replied Sam. “P’raps you may ask for it, five minits arter- 
vards ; p’raps I may say I von’t pay, and cut up rough. You von’t think o’ 
arrrestin’ your own son for the money, and sendin’ him off to the Fleet, will you, 
you unnat’ral wagabone } ” 

At this reply of Sam’s, the father and son exchanged a complete code of tele- 
graphic nods and gestures, after which, the elder Mr. Weller sat himself down on 
a stone step, and laughed till he was purple. 

“Wot a old image it is!” exclaimed Sam, indignant at this loss of time. 
“What are you a settin’ down there for, con-wertin’ your face into a street-door 
knocker, wen there’s so much to be done. Where’s the money } ” 

“ In the boot, Sammy, in the boot,” replied Mr. Weller, composing his features. 
“ Hold my hat, Sammy.” 

Having divested himself of this incumbrance, Mr. Weller gave his body a 
sudden wrench to one side, and, by a dexterous twist, contrived to get his right 
hand into a most capacious pocket, from whence, after a great deal of panting and 
exertion, he extricated a pocket-book of the large octavo size, fastened by a huge 
leathern strap. From this ledger he drew forth a couple of whip-lashes, three or 
four buckles, a little sample-bag of corn, and finally a small roll of very dirty bank- 
notes ; from which he selected the required amount, which he handed over to Sam. 

“And now, Sammy,” said the old gentleman, when the whip-lashes, and the 
buckles, and the samples, had been all put back, and the book once more deposited 
at the bottom of the same pocket, “Now, Sammy, I know a gen’l’m’n here, as’ll 
do the rest o’ the bisness for us, in no time — a limb o’ the law, Sammy, as has got 
brains like the frogs, dispersed all over his body, and reachin’ to the wery tips 
of his fingers ; a friend of the Lord Chancellorship’s, Sammy, who’d only have to 
tell him what he wanted, and he’d lock you up for life, if that wos all.” 

“I say,” said Sam, “none o’ that.” 

“ None o’ wot } ” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“ Wy, none o’ them unconstitootional ways o’ doing it,” retorted Sam. “The 
have-his-carcase, next to the perpetual motion, is vun of the blessedest things as 
wos ever made. I’ve read that ’ere in the newspapers, wery ot’en.” 

“ Well, wot’s that got to do vith it } ” inquired Mr. Weller. 

“Just this here,” said Sam, “ that I’ll jiatronise the inwention, and go in, that 
vay. No visperin’s to the Chancellorship, I don’t like the notion. It mayn’t be 
altogether safe, vith reference to gettin’ out agin.” 

Deferring to his son’s feeling upon this point, Mr. Weller at once sought the 
enxdite Solomon Pell, and acquainted him with his desire to issue a writ, instanllf. 


578 


The Pickwick Club, 


for the sum of twenty-five pounds, and costs of process ; to be executed without 
delay upon the body of one Samuel Weller ; the charges thereby incurred, to b« 
paid in advance to Solomon 'Pell. 

The attorney was in high glee, for the embarrassed coach-horser was ordered 
to be discharged forthwith. He highly approved of Sam’s attachment to his 
master ; declared that it strongly reminded him of his own feelings of d ::votion to 
his friend, the Chancellor ; and at once led the elder Mr. Weller down to the 
Temple, to swear the affidavit of debt, which the boy, with the assistance of the 
blue bag, had drawn up on the spot. 

Meanwhile, Sam, having been formally introduced to the whitewashed gentle- 
man and his friends, as the offspring of Mr. Weller, of the Belle Savage, was 
treated with marked distinction, and invited to regale himself with them in honour 
of the occasion ; an invitation which he was by no means backward in accepting. 

The mirth of gentlemen of this, class is of a grave and quiet character, usually ; 
but the present instance was one of peculiar festivity, and they relaxed in propor- 
tion. After some rather tumultuous toasting of the Chief Commissioner and 
Mr. Solomon Pell, who had that day displayed such transcendent abilities, a 
mottled-faced gentleman in a blue shawl proposed that somebody should sing a 
song. The obvious suggestion was, that the mottled-faced gentleman, being anxious 
for a song, should sing it himself ; but this the mottled-faced gentleman sturdily, 
and somewhat offensively, declined to do. Upon which, as is not unusual in such 
cases, a rather angry colloquy ensued. 

“ Gentlemen,” said the coach-horser, “rather than disturb the harmony of this 
delightful occasion, perhaps Mr. Samuel Weller will oblige the company.” 

“ Raly, gentlemen,” said Sam, “I’m not wery much in the habit o’ singin’ 
without the instrument ; but anythin’ for a quiet life, as the man said wen he 
took the sitivation at the lighthouse.” 

With this prelude, Mr. Samuel Weller burst at once into the following wild and 
beautiful legend, which, under the impression that it is not generally known, we 
take the liberty of quoting. We would beg to call particular attention to the 
monosyllabic at the end of the second and fourth lines, which not only enable* 
the singer to take breath at those points, but greatly assists the metre. 

ROMANCE. 

I. 

Bold Turpin vunce, on Hounslow Heath, 

His bold mare Hess bestrode— er ; 

Ven there lie see’d the Bi?hop’8 coach 
A-cominff along the road— er. 

Ho he gallops cdose to the orse’s legs. 

And he claps his head viihin ; 

And the Bishop says, “ .Sure as eggs is eggs, 

This here’s the bold Turpin ! ” 

CHORUS. 

And the Bishop says, “ Sure as eggs is egg*. 

This here’s the bold Turpin ! ” 

II. 

Bays Turpin, “Ton shall eat your word*, 

Wiih a sarse of leaden bul-let 
So he puts a pistol to his mouth, 

And he fires it down his gul-let. 

The coachman he not likin’ the job, 

Set off at a full gal-lop, 

But Dick put a cotiple of balls in his nob^ 

And perwailed on him to stop. 

CHORUS {sarcastically). 

But Hick put a couple or balls in his noh, 

And perwailed on him to stop. 


And his Creditor is Remorseless. 


379 


“I maintain that that ’ere song’s personal to the cloth,” said the mottled -faced 
gentleman, interruj: ting it at this point. “ I demand the name o’ that coachman.” 

Nobody know’d,” replied Sam. “ He hadn’t got his card in his pocket.” 

“I object to the introduction o’ politics,” said the mottle-faced gentleman. “I 
6ubm.it that, in the present company, that ’ere song’s political ; and, wot’s much 
the sam.e, that it ain’t true. 1 say that that coachman did not run away ; but 
that he died game — game as pheasants ; and I won’t hear nothin’ said to the 
contrairey.” 

As the mottle-faced gentleman spoke with great energy and determination : and 
as the opinions of the company seemed divided on the subject : it threatened to give 
rise to fresh altercation, when Mr. Weller and Mr. Pell most opportunely arrived. 

“ All right, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. 

“ The officer will be here at fom o’clock,” said Mr. Pell. “ I suppose you won’t 
run away meanwhile, eh ? Ha ! ha ! ” 

“ P’raps my cruel pa ’ull relent afore then,” replied Sam, with a broad grin. 

“Not I,” said the elder Mr. Weller. 

“ Do,” said Sam. 

“Not on no account,” replied the inexorable creditor. 

“ I’ll give bills for the amount, at sixpence a month,” said Sam. 

“ I won’t take ’em,” said Mr. Weller. 

“ Ha, ha, ha ! very good, very good,” said IMr. Solomon Pell, who was making 
out his little bill of costs; “a very amusing incident indeed! Benjamin, copy 
thnt.” And Mr. Pell smiled again, as he called Mr. Weller’s attention to the 
amount. 

“Thank you, thank you,” said the professional gentleman, taking up another 
of the greasy notes as Mr. Weller took it from the pocket-book. “ Three ten and 
one ten is five. Much obliged to you, Mr. Weller. Your son is a most deserving 
young man, very much so indeed, sir. It’s a very pleasant trait in a young man’s 
character, very much so,” added Mr. Pell, smiling smoothly round, as he buttoned 
up the money. 

“ Wot a game it is ! ” said the elder Mr. Weller, with a chuckle. “ A reg’lar 
prodigy son ! ” 

“Prodigal, prodigal son, sir,” suggested Mr. Pell, mildly. 

“Never mind, sir,” said Mr. Weller, with dignity. “I know wot’s o’clock, 
sir. Wen I don’t. I’ll ask you, sir.” 

By the time the officer arrived, Sam had made himself so extremely popular, 
that the congiegated gentlemen determined to see him to prison in a body. So, 
off they set ; the plaintiff and defendant walking arm-in-arm ; the officer in front ; 
and eight stout coachmen bringing up the rear. At Serjeants’ Inn Coffee-house 
the whole party halted to refresh, and, the legal arrangements being completed, 
the procession moved on again. 

Some little commotion was occasioned in Fleet Street, by the pleasantry of the 
eight gentlemen in the flank, who persevered in walking four abreast ; it was also 
found necessary to leave the mottle-faced gentleman behind, to fight a ticket- 
porter, it being arranged that his friends should call for him as they came back. 
Nothing but these little incidents occurred on the way. When they reached the 
gate of the Fleet, the cavalcade, taking the time from the plaintiff, gave three 
tremendous cheers for the defendant, and, after having shaken handi, all round, 
left him. 

Sam, having been formally delivered into the warden’s custody, to the intense 
ustonislmentof Roker, and to the evident emotion of even the phlegmatic Neddy, 
passed at once into the j^rison, walked straight to his master’s room, and loiocked 

At the door. 


The Pickwick Club, 


380 


“ Come in,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Sam appeared, pulled off his hat, and smiled. 

“Ah, Sam, my good lad!” said Mr. Pickwick, evidently delighted to see hia 
humble friend again ; “I had no intention of hurting your feelings yesterday, my 
faithful fellow, by what I said. Put down yoiu" hat, Sam, and let me explain my 
meaning, a little more at length.” 

“ Won’t presently do, sir } ” inquired Sam. 

“ Certainly,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ but why not now ? ** 

“ I’d rayther not now, sir,” rejoined Sam. 

“Wliy ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ ’Cause — ” said Sam, hesitating. 

“ Because of what ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, alarmed at his follower’s manner, 
“ Speak out, Sam.” 

“ ’Cause,” rejoined Sam ; “’cause I’ve got a little bisness as I want to do.” 

“ What business.?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, surprised at Sam’s confused manner. 

“Nothin’ partickler, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ Oh, if it’s nothing particular,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile, “you c«n 
speak with me first.” 

“ I think I’d better see arter it at once,” said Sam, still hesitating. 

Mr. Pickwick looked amazed, but said nothing. 

“The fact is,” said Sam, stopping short. 

“ Well I ” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Speak out, Sam.” 

“Why, the fact is,” said Sam, with a desperate effort, “P’raps I’d better eec 
arter my bed afore I do anythin’ else.” 

“ Your bed I ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, in astonishment. 

“Yes, my bed, sir,” replied Sam. “ I’m a pris'ner. I was arrested, this here 
weiy arternoon, for debt.” 

“ You arrested for debt ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, sinking into a chair. 

“Yes, for debt, sir,” replied Sam. “ And the man as puts me in, ’ull never let 
me out, till you go yourself.” 

“ Bless my heart and soul I” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. “What do you mean .?” 

“Wot Isay, sir,” rejoined Sam. “If it’s forty year to come, I shall be a 
pris’ner, and I’m very glad on it, and if it had been Newgate, it would ha’ been 
just the same. Now the murder’s out, and, damme, there’s an end on it ! ” 

With these words, which he repeated with great emphasis and violence, Sam 
Weller dashed his hat upon the ground, in a most unusual state of excitement ; 
and then, folding his arms, looked finnly and fixedly in his master’s face. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

TREATS OF DIVERS LITTLE MATTERS WHICH OCCURRED IN THE FLEET, AND 
of' MR. winkle’s MYSTERIOUS BEHAVIOUR; AND SHOWS HOW THE 
P160R CHANCERY PRISONER OBTAINED HIS RELEASE AT LAST. 

Mr. ^Pickwick felt a great deal too much touched by the warmth of Sam’s 
attachment, to be able to exhibit any manifestation of anger or displeasure at the 
pr^ipitate course he had adopted, in voluntarily consigning himself to a debtors’ 
prison, for an indefinite period. The only point on which he persevered in 
demanding any explanation, was, the name of Sam’s detaining creditor ; but this 
W’’eller as perseveringly withheld. 


Done on Principle. 


381 


*‘It ain’t Cl’ no use, sir,” said Sam, again and again. “He’s a ma-licious, 
bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, spiteful, win.iictive creetur, with a hard heart as 
there ain’t no soft’nin’. As the wirtuous clerg^^man remarked of the old gen’l’m’n 
with the dropsy, ven he said, that upon the whole he thought he’d rayther leave 
his property to his vife than build a chapel vith it.” 

“But consider, Sam,” Mr. Pickwick remonstrated, “the sum' is so small that 
it can \ ery easily be paid ; and having made up my mind that you shall stop with 
me, you should recollect how much more useful you would be, if you could go 
outside the walls.” 

“ Wery much obliged to you, sir,” replied Mr. Weller gravely ; “ but I’d 
rayther not,” 

“ Rather not do what, Sam ?” 

“ Wy, I’d rayther not let myself down to ask a favour o’ this here unremorseful 
enemy.” 

“ But it is no favour asking him to take his money, Sam,” reasoned Mr. Pick- 

irick. 

•• Beg your pardon, sir,” rejoined Sam ; “ but it ’ud be a wery great favour to 
pay it, and he don’t deserve none ; that’s where it is, sir.” 

Here Mr. Pickwick, rubbing his nose with an air of some vexation, Mr. Weller 
thought it piTident to change the theme of the discourse. 

“ I takes my determination on principle, sir,” remarked Sam, “ and you takes 
yours on the same ground ; wich puts me in mind o’ the man as killed his-selt on 
principle, wich o’ course you’ve heerd on, sir.” Mr. Weller paused when he 
arrived at this point, and cast a comical look at his master out of the corners of 
his eyes. 

“'There is no ‘of course ’in the case, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, gradually 
breaking into a smile, in spite of the uneasiness which Sam’s obstinacy had given 
him. “ The fame of the gentleman in question, never reached my ears.” 

“No, sir!” exclaimed Mr. Weller. “You astonish me, sir ; he wos a clerk 
in a gov’ment office, sir.” 

“ Was he said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Yes, he wos, sir,” rejoined Mr. Weller ; “ and a wery pleasant gen’l’m’n too — 
one o’ the precise and tidy sort, as puts their feet in little india-rubber fire-buckets 
wen its wet weather, and never has no other bosom friends but hare-skins ; he 
saved up his money on principle, wore a clean shirt ev’ry day on principle ; never 
spoke to none of his relations on principle, ’fear they shou’d want to borrow 
money of him ; and wos altogether, in fact, an uncommon agreeable character. 
He had his hair cut on principle vunce a fortnight, and contracted for his clothes 
on the economic principle — three suits a year, and send back the old uns. Being 
a wery reg’lar geuTm’n, he din’d ev’iy day at the same place, were it wos one 
and nine to cut oft' the joint, and a wery good one and nine’s worth he used to 
cut, as the landlord often said, with the tears a tricklin’ down his face : let aBne 
the w'ay he used to poke the fire in the vinler time, which wos. a dead loss o’ 
four-pence ha’penny a day ; to say nothin’ at all o’ the aggrawation o’ seein’ him 
doit. So uncommon gi-and with it too I ‘Post arter the next gen’Tm’n,’ he 
sings out ev’ry day *^en he comes in. ‘ See arter the Times, Thomas ; let me 
look at the Me rnin’ Herald, wen it’s out o’ hand ; don’t forget to bespeak the 
Chronicle; and just bring the ’Tizer, vill you:’ and then he’d set vith his eyes 
fixed on the clock, and rush out, just a quarter of a minit afore the time, to way- 
lay the boy as wos a cornin’ in with the evenin’ paper, wich he’d read with sich 
intense interest and persewerance as worked the other customers up to the wery 
confines o’ desperation and insanity, ’specially one i-rascible old gen’l’m’n as the 
vaiter wos always obliged to keep a sharp eye on, at sich times, fear he should be 


38a 


The Pickwick Club, 


tempted to commit some rash act with the carving knife. Veil, sir, here he’d 
stop, occiipyin’ the best place for three hours, and never tukin’ nothin’ arter his 
dinner, but sleep, and then he’d go away to a coffee-house a few streets off, and 
have a small pot o’ coffee and four crumj^ets, arter wich he’d walk home to Ken- 
sington and go to bed. One night he wos took veiy ill ; sends for a doctor; 
doctor comes in a green fly, with a kind o’ Robinson Crusoe set o’ steps, as he 
could let down wen he got out, and pull up arter him wen he got in, to perwent 
the necessity o’ the coachman’s gettin’ down, and thereby undeceivin’ the public 
by lettin’ ’em see that it wos only a livery coat as he’d got on, and not the trousers 
to match. ‘Wot’s the matter?’ says the doctor. ‘ \Very ill,’ says the patient- 
Wot have you been a eatin’ on?’ says the doctor. ‘Roast weal,’ says the 
patient. ‘Wot’s the last thing you dewoured ?’ says the doctor. ‘Crumpets,’ 
says the patient. ‘ That’s it ! ’ says the doctor. ‘ I’ll send you a box of pills 
directly, and don’t you never take no more of ’em,’ he says. ‘ No more o’ wot ?’ 
says the patient — ‘Pills?’ ‘No; crumpets,’ says the doctor. ‘Wy?’says the 
patient, starting up in bed ; ‘ I’ve eat four crumpets, ev’ry night for fifteen year, 
on principle.’ ‘Well, then, you’d better leave ’em off, on principle,’ says the 
doctor. ‘ Crumpet’s is wholesome, sir,’ says the patient. ‘ Crumpets is itoi 
wholesome, sir,’ says the doctor, wery fierce. ‘ But they’re so cheap,’ says the 
patient, cornin’ .down a little, ‘ and so wery fillin’ at the price,’ ‘ They’d be dear 
to you, at any price; dear if you wos paid to eat ’em,’ says the doctor. ‘Four 
crumpets a night,’ he says, ‘vill do your business in six months!’ The patienl 
looks him full in the face, and turns it over in his mind for a long time, and a. 
last he says, ‘Are you sure o’ that ’ere, sir.^” ‘I’ll stake my professional reputa- 
tion on it,’ says the doctor. ‘ How many crumpets, at a siltin’, do you think 
’ud kill me oft' at once?’ says the patient. ‘I don’t know,’ says the doctor. 
‘Do you think half a crown’s wurth ’ud do it?’ says the patient. ‘ I think it 
might,’ says the doctor. ‘ Three shillins’ wurth ’ud be sure to do it, I s’pose ? ’ 
says the patient. ‘ Certainly,’ says the doctor. ‘ Wery good,’ says the patient ; 
‘goodnight.’ Next mornin’ he gets up, has a fire lit, orders in • three shillins’ 
wurth o’ cinmpets, toasts ’em all, eats ’em all, and blows his brains out.” 

“ What did he do that for ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick abruptly ; for he was con- 
siderably startled by this tragical termination of the nairative. 

“Wot did he do it for, sir ?” reiterated Sam. “ Wy in support of his great 
principle that crumpets wos wholesome, and to show that he wouldn’t be put out 
of his way for nobody ! ” 

With such like shirtings and changings of the discourse, did hir. Weller meet 
his master’s questioning on the night of his taking up his residence in the Fleet. 
Finding all gentle remonstrance useless. Air. Pickwick at length yielded a re- 
luctant consent to his taking lodgings by the week, of a bald-headed cobbler, who 
rented a small slip-room in one of the upper galleries. To this humble apartment 
Air. Weller moved a mattress and bedding, which he hired of Air. Roker ; and, by 
the time he lay down upon it at night, was as much at home as if he had been 
bred in the j)rison, and his whole family had vegetated therein for three genera- 
tions. 

“ Do you always smoke arter you goes to bed, old cock ? ’i in(|uired Air. Weller 
of his landlord, when they had both retired for the night. 

“Yes, I does, young bantam,” replied the cobbler. 

“ Will you allow me to in-quire wy you make up your bed under that ere deal 
table ? ” said Sam. 

“ ’Cause I was always used to a four-poster afore I came here, and I find the 
legs of the table answer just as well,” replied the cob'uler. 

“You’re a character, sir,” saia Sam. 


Hoiv the Collier was ruined. 


383 


“ I haven’t got an) thing of the kind belonging to me,” rejoined the cobbler, 
shaking his head ; ‘‘and if you want to meet with a good one, I’m afraid you’ll 
find some difficulty in suiting yourself at this register office.” 

The above short dialogue took place as Mr. Weller lay extended on nis mattress 
at one end of the room, and the cobbler on his, at the other ; the apaitment being 
illumined by the light of a rush candle, and the cobbler’s pipe, which was 
glowing below the table, like a red-hot coal. The conversation, brief as it was, 
predisposed Mr. Weller strongly in his landlord’s favour; and raising himself on 
nis elbow he took a more lengthened survey of his appearance than he had yet 
had either time or inclination to make. 

He was a sallow man — all cobblers are ; and had a strong bristly beard — all 
cobblers have. His face was a queer, good-tempered, crooked-featured piece of 
workmanship, ornamented with a couple of eyes that must have worn a very 
joyous expression at one time, for they sparkled yet. The man was sixty, by 
years, and Heaven knows how old by imprisonment, so that his having any look 
approaching to mirth or contentment, was singular enough. He was a little man, 
and, being half doubled up as he lay in bed, looked about as long as he ought to 
have been without his legs. He had a great red pipe in his mouth, and was 
smoking, and staring at the rush-light, in a state of enviable placidity. 

^ “Have you been here long?” inquired Sam, breaking the silence which had 
lasted for some time. 

“ Twelve year,” replied the cobbler, biting the end of his pipe as he spoke. 

“ Contempt ? ” inquired Sam. 

The cobbler nodded. 

“ Well, then,” said Sam, with some sternness, “wot do you persevere in bein’ 
obstinit for, vastin’ your precious life away, in this here magnified pound ? Wy 
don’t you give in, and tell the Chancellorship that you’re wery sony for makin’ 
his court contemptible, and you won’t do so no more ? ” 

The cobbler put his pipe in the corner of his mouth, while he smiled, and then 
brought it back to its old place again ; but said nothing. 

“ Wy don’t you ? ” said Sam, urging his question strenuously. 

“ Ah,” said the cobbler, “ you don’t quite understand these matters. What do 
you suppose ruined me, now ? ” 

“ Wy,” said Sam, trimming the rush-light, “I s’pose the beginnin’ wos, that 
you got into debt, eh ? ” 

“Never owed a farden,” said the cobbler; “tiy again.” ^ 

“Well, perhaps,” said Sam, “you bought houses, wich is delicate English for 
goin’ mad : or took to buildin’, wich is a medical term for bein’ incurable.” 

The cobbler shook his head and said, “ Try again.” 

“ You didn’t go to law, I hope?” said Sam, suspiciously. 

“ Never in my life,” replied the cobbler. “ The fact is, I was ruined by having 
money left me.” 

“ Come, come,” said Sam, “ that von’t do. I wish some rich enemy ’ud try to 
vork my destruction in that ’ere vny. I’d let him.” 

“Oh, I dare say you don’t believe it,” said the cobbler, quietly smoking his 
pipe. “I wouldn’t if I was you; but it’s true for all that.” 

“ How wos it ? ” inquired Sam, half induced to believe the fact already, by the 
look the cobbler gave him. 

“Just this,” replied the cobbler; “ an old gentleman that I worked for, down 
in the country, and a humble relation of whose I mairied — she’s dead, God bless 
her, and thank Him for it ! — was seized with a fit and went off.” 

“ Where ? ” inquired Sam, who was growing sleepy after the numerous events 
of the day. 


384- 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ How should I know where he went ? ” said the cobbler, speaking through hi* 
nose in an intense enjoyment of his pipe. “ He went off dead.” 

“ Oh, that indeed,” said Sam. “ Well } ” 

“ Well,” said the cobbler, “ he left five thousand pound behind him.” 

“ And weiy gen-teel in him so to do,” said Sam. 

“One of which,” continued the cobbler, “he left to me, ’cause I’d married 
his relation, you see.” 

“ Weiy'^ good,” murmured Sam. 

“ And being surrounded by a great number of nieces and nev^’^s, as was always 
a quarrelling and fighting among themselves for the property, he makes me his 
executor, and leaves the rest to me : in trust, to divide it among ’em as tire will 
prowided.” 

“ Wot do you mean by leavin’ it on trust } ” inquired Sam, waking up a little. 
“ If it ain’t ready money, were’s the use on it .? ” 

“ It’s a law term, that’s all,” said the cobbler. 

“ I don’t think that,” said Sam, shaking his head. “ There’s wery little trust 
at that shop. Hows’ever, go on.” 

“Well,” said the cobbler: “ when I was going to take out a probate of the 
will, the nieces and nevys, who was desperately disappointed at not getting all the 
money, enters a caveat against it.” 

“What’s that ?” inquired Sam. 

“ A legal instiaiment, which is as much as to say, it’s no go,” replied the cobbler. 

“I see,” said Sam, “a sort of brother-in-law o’ the have-his-carcaSe. Well.” 

“ But,” continued the cobbler, “ finding that they couldn’t agree among them- 
selves, and consequently couldn’t get up a case against the will, they withdrew 
the caveat, and I paid all the legacies. I’d hardly done it, when one nevy brings 
an action to set the will aside. The case comes on, some months aftei-u^ards, afore 
a deaf old gentleman, in a back room somewhere down by Paul’s Churchyard ; 
and alter four counsels had taken a day a-piece to bother him regularly, he takes 
a week or two to consider, and read the evidence in six vollums, and then gives 
his judgment that how the testator was not quite right in his head, and I must 
pay all the money back again, and all the costs, I appealed ; the case come on 
before three or four very sleepy gentlemen, who had heard it all before in the other 
court, where they’re lawyers without work ; the only difierence being, that, there, 
they’re called doctors, and in the other place delegates, if you understand that ; 
and they veiy dutifully confirmed the decision of *^he old gentleman below. After 
that, we went into Chancery, where we are still, and where I shall always be. 
My lawyers have had all my thousand pound long ago ; and what between the 
estate, as they call it, and the costs, I’m here for ten thousand, and shall stop 
here, till I die, mending shoes. Some gentlemen have talked of bringing it afore 
parliament, and I dare say would have done it, only they hadn’t time to come to 
me, and I hadn’t power to go to them, and they got tired of my long letters, and 
dropped the business. And this is God’s truth, without one word of suppression 
or exaggeration, as fifty people, both in this place and out of it, very well know.” 

The cobbler paused to ascertain what effect his story had produced on Sam ; but 
finding that he had dropped asleep, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, sighed, 
put it down, diew the bedclothes over his head, and went to sleep too. 

Mr. Pickwick was sitting at breakfast, alone, next morning (Sam being busily 
engaged in the cobbler’s room, polishing his master’s shoes and brushing the black 
gaiters) when there came a knock at the door, which, before Mr. Pickwick could 
cry “ Come in ! ” was followed by the appearance of a head of hair and a cotton- 
velvet cap, both of which articles of dress he had no difficulty in recognising as 
fbe personal property of Mr. Smangle, 


38,5 


Little Failings of Great Spirits. 

“How are you ?” said that worthy, accompanying the inquiry with a score oi 
two of nods; “I say — do you expect anybody this morning? Three men — 
devilish gentlemanly fellows — have been asking after you down stairs, and knock* 
ing at every door on the Hall flight ; for which they ’ve been most infernally blown 
up by the collegians that had the trouble of opening ’em.” 

“ Dear me ! How veiy foolish of them,” said Mr. Pickwick, rising. “Yes ; I 
have no doubt they are some friends whom I rather expected to see, yesterday.” 

“ Friends of yours ! ” exclamed Smangle, seizing Mr. Pickwick by the hand. 

“ Saj' no more. Curse me, they ’re friends of mine from this minute, and friends 
of Mivins’s too. Infernal pleasant, gentlemanly, dog, Mivins’s, isn’t he?” said' 
Smangle, with gieat feeling. 

^ “I^know so little of the gentleman,” said Mr. Pickwick, hesitating, “that 

“ I know you do,” interposed Smangle, clasping Mr. Pickwick by the shoulder. 

“ You shall know him better. You’ll be delighted with him. That man, sir,” 
said Smangle, with a solemn countenance, “has comic powers that would do 
honour to Drury Lane Theatre.” 

“ Has he indeed ?” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Ah, by Jove he has!” replied Smangle. “Hear him come the four cats in 
the wheelbarrow — four distinct cats, sir, I pledge you my honour. Now you 
Know that ’s infernal clever I Dam’me, you can’t help liking a man, when you 
see these traits about him. He’s only one fault — that little faihng I mentioned to 
you, you know.” 

As Mr. Smangle shook his head in a confidential and sympathising manner at 
this juncture, Mr. Pickwick felt that he was expected to say something, so he said 
“ Ah !” and looked restlessly at the door. 

“Ah!” echoed Mr. Smangle, with a long-drawn sigh. “He’s delightful 
company, that man is, sir. I don’t know better company anywhere ; but he has 
that one drawback. If the ghost of his grandfather, sir, was to rise before him this 
minute, he ’d ask him for the loan of his acceptance on an eighteenpenny stamp.” 

“ Dear me !” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“Yes,” added Mr. Smangle ; and if he ’d the power of raising him again, he 
would, in two months and three days from this time, to renew the bill ! ” 

“Those are very remarkable traits,” said Mr. Pickwick ; “ but I’m afraid that 
while we are talking here, my friends may be in a state of great perplexity at not 
finding me.” 

“ I ’ll show ’em the way,” said Smangle, making for the door. “ Good day. 

I won’t disturb you while they ’re here, you know. By-the-bye ” 

As Smangle pronounced the last three words, he stopped suddenly, re-closed 
the door which he had opened, and, walking softly back to Mr. Pickwick, stepped 
close up to him on tip-toe, and said in a very soft whisper : 

“You couldn’t make it convenient to lend me half-a-crown till the latter end of 
m xt week, could you ?” 

Mr. Pickwick could scarcely forbear smiling, but managing to preserve his 
gravity, he drew forth the coin, and placed it in Mr. Smangle’s palm ; upon which, 
tliat gentleman, with many nods and winks, implying profound mystery, disap- 
peared in quest of the three strangers, with whom he presently returned ; and 
having coughed thrice, and nodded as many times, as an assurance to jMr. Pickwick 
that he would not forget to pay, he shook hands aU round, in an engaging 
manner, and at length took himself off. 

“ My dear friends,” said Mr. Pickwick, shaking hands alternately with Mr. 
Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass, who were the three visitoni in question, 
“I am delighted to see you.” 


c c 


386 


The Picknick Club. 


Tlie trinmvirate were much affected Mr Tupman shook his head deploringly ; 
Mr. Snodgrass drew forth his handicerchief, with undisguised emotion ; and Mr, 
Winkle retired to the window, and sniffed aloud. 

“ Mornin’, gen’l’m’n,” said Sam, entering at the moment with the shoes and 
gaiters. “ Avay vith melincholly, as the little boy said ven his school-missis died. 
Velcome to the College, gen’l’m’n.” 

“This foolish fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, tapping Sam on 'the head as he knelC 
down to button up his master’s gaiters ; “ This foolish fellow has got himjcli 
arrested, in order to be near me.” 

“ What !” exclaimed the tlr.ee friends. 

“Yes, gen’l’m’n,” said Sam, “I’m a — stand steady, sir, if you please — I ’m a 
pris’ner, gen’l’m’n. Con-fined, as the lady said.” 

“ A prisoner !” exclaimed Mr. Winkle, with unaccountable vehemence. 

“ Hallo, sir !” responded Sam, looking up. “ Wot ’s the matter, sir 

“ 1 had hoped, Sam, that nothing, nothing,” said Mr. Winkle, precipitately 

There was something so very abrupt and unsettled in hir. Winkle’s manner, 
that Mr. PidcMnck involuntarily looked at his two friends, for an explanation. 

“We don’t know,” said Mr. Tupman, answering this mute appeal aloud. 
“ He has been much excited for two days past, and his whole demeanour very 
unlike what it usually is. We feared there must be something the matter, but he 
resolutely denies it.” 

“ No, no,” said Mr. Winkle, colouring beneath Mr. Pickwick’s gaze; “ there 
is really nothing. I assure you there is nothing, my dear sir. It will be necessary 
for me to leave town, for a short time, on private business, and I had hoped 
to have prevailed upon you to allow Sam to accompany me.” 

Mr. Pickwick looked more astonished than before. 

“ I thinlc,” faltered Mr. Winlde, “ that Sam would have had no objection to do 
so ; but, of course, his being a prisoner here, renders it impossible. So I must 
go alone.” 

As Mr. Winkle said these words, Mr. Pickwick felt, with some astonishment, 
that Sam’s fingers were trembling at the gaiters, as if he were rather surprised or 
startled. Sam looked up at Mr. Winkle, too, when he had finished speaking ; and 
though the glance they exchanged was instantaneous, they seemed to understand 
each other. 

“Do you know anything of this, Sam said Mr. Pickwick, sharply. 

“ No, I don’t sir,” replied Mr. Weller, beginning to button with extraordinary 
assiduity. 

“ Are you sure, Sam ?” said Mr. Hckwick. 

“Wy, sir,” responded Mr. Weller; “I’m smre so far, that I’ve never heerd 
anythin’ on the subject afore this moment. If I makes any guess about it,” added 
Sam, looking at Mr. Winkle, “ I haven’t got any right to say what it is. Tear it 
should be a wrong ’un.” 

“ I have no right to make any further inquiry into the private affairs of a friend, 
however intimate a friend,” said Mr. Pickwick, after a short silence ; “ at present let 
me merely say, that I do not understand this at all. There. We have had quite 
enough of the subject.” 

Thus expressing himself, Mr. Pickwick led the conversation to different topics, 
and Mr. Winkle gradually appeared more at ease, though still very far from being 
completely so. They had all so much to converse about, that the mom'ng very 
(juickly passed away ; and when, at three o’clock, Mr. Weller produced upon the 
little dining table, a roast leg of mutton and an enonnous meat pie, with sundry 
dishes of vegetables, and pots of porter, which stood upon the chairs or the sofa- 
bedstead, or wheoe they could, everybody felt disposed to do justice to the meal, 


Mr. Winkle apparently Desperate. 38; 

notvidtlistanding that the meat had been purchased, and dressed, and the pie made, 
and baked, at the prison cookery hard by. 

To these, succeeded a bottle or two of veiy' good wine, for which a messengei 
was dispatched by Mr, Pickwick to the Horn Coffeehouse, in Doctors’ Commons. 
The bottle or two, indeed, might be more properly described as a bottle or six, 
for by the time it was drunlc, and tea over, the bell began to ring for strangers to 
withdraw. 

But, if Mr. Winkle’s behavioui had been unaccountable in the morning, it 
became perfectly unearthly and solemn when, under the influence of his feelings, 
and his share of the bottle or six, he prepared to take leave of his friend. He 
lingered behind, until Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass had disappeared, and then 
fervently clenched Mr. Pickwick’s hand, with an expression of face in which deep 
and mighty resolve was fearfully blended with the very concentrated essence ol 
gloom. 

“ Good night, my dear sir ! ” said Mr. Winlde between his set teeth. 

“ Bless you, my dear fellow ! ” replied the warm-hearted Mr. Pickwick, as he 
returned the pressure of his young friend’s hand. 

“ Now then ! ” cried Mr. Tupman from the gallery. 

Yes, yes, directly,” replied Mr. Winlde. “ Good night 1 ” 

“ Good night,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

There was another good night, and another, and half-a-dozen more after that, 
and still Mr. Winkle had fast hold of his friend’s hand, and was looking into his 
face with the same strange expression. 

“ Is anything the matter ? ” said Mr. Pickwick at last, when his arm was quite 
sore with shaking. 

“ Nothing,” said Mr. Winkle. 

“Well then, good night,” said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to disengage his 
hand. 

“ My friend, my benefactor, my honoured companion,” murmured Mr. Winkle, 
catching at his wrist. “ Do not judge me harshly; do not, when you hear that, 
driven to extremity by hopeless obstacles, I ” 

“ Now then,” said Mr. Tupman, re-appearing at the door. “Are you coming, 
or are we to be locked in } ” 

“ Yes, yes, I am ready,” replied Mr. Winlde. And with a violent effort he tore 
bmself away. 

As Mr. Pickwick was gazing down the passage after them in silent astonish- 
ment, Sam Weller appeared at the stair-head, and whispered for one moment in 
Mr. Winkle’s ear. 

“ Oh certainly, depend upon me,” said that gentleman aloud. 

“ Thankee, sir. You won’t forget, sir? ” said Sam. 

“ Of course not,” replied Mr. Winkle. 

“ Wish you luck, sir,” said Sam, touching his hat. “ I should very much liked 
to ha’ joined you, sir ; but the gov’ner o’ course is pairamount.” 

“ It is very much to your credit that you remain here,” said Mr. Winlde. With 
the~>e words they disappeared down the stairs. 

“ Very extraordinary,” said Mr. Pickwick, going back into his room, and 
seating hin self at the table in a musing attitude. “ What cati. that young man be 

going to do ’ ” ^ • cry ^ 

He had sat ruminating about the matter for some time, when the voice of Rcb er, 
the turnkey, demanded whether he might come in. 

“ By all means,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I’ve brought you a softer pillow, sir,”said Roker, “ instead of the temp<»«y 
one you had last night.” 


S88 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Thank you,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Will you take a glass of wine ? ** 

“You’re wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Roker, accepting the proffered glassi 
“ Yours, sir.” 

“ Thank you,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I’m sorry to say that your landlord’s wery bad to-night, sir,” said Roker, 
Betting down the glass, and inspecting the lining of his hat preparatory to putting 
it on again. 

“ What ! The Chancery prisoner ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ He won’t be a Chancery prisoner weiy^ long, sir,” replied Roker, turning his 
Nat round, so as to get the maker’s name right side upwards, as he looked 
nto it. 

“ You make my blood run cold,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Wliat do you mean 

“ He’s been consumptive for a long time past,” said Mr. Roker, “ and he’s 
aken wery bad in the breath to-night. The doctor said, six months ago, that 
. othing but change of air could save him.” 

“ Great Heaven ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick ; “ has this man been slowly 
Kiurdered by the law for six months ! ” 

“ I don’t know about that,” replied Roker, weighing the hat by the brims in 
both hands. “ I suppose he’d have been took the same, wherever he was. He 
went into the infirmary, this morning ; the doctor says his strength is to be kept 
up as much as possible ; and the warden’s sent him wine and broth and that, from 
his own house. It’s not the warden’s fault, you know, sir.” 

“ Of course not,” replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. 

“ I’m afraid, however,” said Roker, shaking his head, “ that it’s all up with 
him. I offered Neddy two six penn’orths to one upon it just now, but he wouldn’t 
take it, and quite right. Thankee, sir. Good night, sir.” 

“ Stay,” said Mr. Pickwick earnestly. “ Where is this infirmary ? ” 

“ Just over where you slept, sir,” replied Roker. “ I’ll show you, if you like to 
come.” Mr. Pickwick snatched up his hat without speaking, and followed at once. 

The turnkey led the way in silence ; and gently raising the latch of the room- 
door, motioned Mr. Pickwnck to enter. It was a large, bare, desolate room, with 
a number of stump bedsteads made of iron : on one of which lay stretched, the 
shadow of a man : wan, pale, and ghastly. His breathing was hard and thick, 
and he moaned painfully as it came and went. At the bedside, sat a short old 
man in a cobbler’s apron, who, by the aid of a pair of horn spectacles, was reading 
from the Bible aloud. It was the fortunate legatee. 

The sick man laid his hand upon his attendant’s arm, and motioned him to stop. 
He closjed the book, and laid it on the bed. 

“ Open the window,” said the sick man. 

He did so. The noise of carriages and carts, the rattle of wheels, the cries of 
men and boys, all the busy sounds of a mighty multitude instinct with life and 
occupation, blended into one deep murmur, floated into the room. Above the 
hoarse loud hum, arose, from time to time, a boisterous laugh ; or a scrap of some 
jingling song, shouted forth, by one of the giddy crowd, would strike upon the 
ear, for an instant, and then be lost amidst the roar of voices and the tramp of 
footsteps ; the breaking of the billows of the restless sea of life, that rolled heavily 
on, without. Melancholy sounds to a quiet listener at any time ; how melancholy 
to the watcher by the bed of death ! 

“ There is no air here,” said the sick man faintly. “ The place pollutes it. It 
was rresh round about, when I walked there, ycan> ago ; but it grows hot and 
heavy in passing these walls. I cannot breathe it.” 

“We have breathed it together, for a long time,” said the old man. “ Come, 
come.” 


Quiet Enjoyment. 


389 


Thsre was a short silence, during which the two spectatoi-s approached the bed. 
The sick man drew a hand of his old fellow prisoner towards hun, and pressing it 
affectionately between both his own, retained it in his grasp. 

“ I hope,” he gasped after a while : so faintly that they bent their ears close 
over the bed to catch the half-formed sounds his pale lips gave vent to : “I hope 
my merciful Judge -wdll bear in mind my heavy punishment on earth. Twenty 
years, rny friend, twenty years in this hideous grave ! My heart broke when my 
child died, and I could not even kiss him in his little coffin. My loneliness since 
then, in all this noise and riot, has been very dreadful. May God forgive me ! 
Pie has seen my solitary, lingering death.” 

He folded his hands, and murmuring something more they could not hear, fell 
into a sleep — only a sleep at first, for they saw him smile. 

They whispered together for a little time, and the turnkey, stooping over the 
pillow, drew hastily back. “He has got his discharge, by G — 1” said the 
man. 

He had. But he had grown so like death in life, that they knew not when he 
died. 


CHAPTER XLV. 

DESCRIPTIVE OF AN EFFECTING INTERVIEW BETWEEN MR. SAMUEL WELLER 
AND A FAMILY PARTY. MR. PICKWICK MAKES A TOUR OF THE DIMINU* 
TIVE WORLD HE INHABITS, AND RESOLVES TO MIX WITH IT, IN FUTURE, 
AS LITTLE AS POSSIBLE. 

A FEW mornings after his incarceration, Mr. Samuel Weller, having arranged 
his master’s room with all possible care, and seen him comfortably seated over 
his books and papers, withdrew to employ himself for an hour or two to come, as 
he best could. It was a fine morning, and it occurred to Sam that a pint of 
porter in the open air would lighten his next quarter of an hour or so, as well as 
any little amusement in which he could indulge. 

Having airived at this conclusion, he betook himself to the tap. Having pur- 
chased the beer, and obtained, moreover, the day-but-one-before-yesterday’s paper, 
he repaired to the skittle-gi'ound, and seating himself on a bench, proceeded to 
enjoy himself in a very sedate and methodical manner. 

First of all, he took a refreshing draught of the beer, and then he looked up at 
a window, and bestowed a Platonic wink on a younglady who was peeling potatoes 
, thereat. Then he opened the paper, and folded it so as to get the police reports 
outwards ; and this being a vexatious and difficult thing to do, when there is any 
wind stirring, he took another draught of the beer when he had accomplished it. 
I hen, he read two lines of the paper, and stopped short, to look at a couple of 
men who were finishing a game at rackets, which being concluded, he cried out 
“ wery good” in an approving manner, and looked round upon the spectators, to 
ascertain whether their sentiments coincided with his own. This involved the 
necessity of looking up at the windows also ; and as the young lady was still there, 
it was an act of common politeness to wink again, and to drink to her good health 
in dumb show, in another draught of the beer, which Sam did ; and having 
frowned hideously upon a small boy who had noted this latter proceeding with 
open eyes, he threw one leg over the other, and, holding the newspaper in bolk 
hands, began to read in real earnest. 


The Pickwick Club. 


^QO 

He had hardly composed himself into the eedful state of abstraction, when hfl 
thought he heard his own name proclaimed in some distant passage. Nor was he 
mistaken, for it quickly passed from mouth to mouth, and in a few seconds the air 
teemed with shouts of “ Weller !” 

“ Here ! ” roarded Sam, in a stentorian voice. “Wot’s the matter.? Who 
wants him ? Has an express come to say that his country-house is a-fire .?” 

“ Somebody wants you in the hall,” said a man who was standing by. 

“ Just mind that ’ere paper and the pot, old feller, will you said Sam. “ I’m 
a cornin’. Blessed, if they was a callin’ me to the bar, they couldn’t make more 
noise about it !” 

Accompanying these words with a gentle rap on the head of the young gentle- 
man before noticed, who, unconscious of his close vicinity to the person in request, 
was screaming “ Weller !” with all his m.ight, Sam hastened across the ground, 
and ran up the steps into the hall. Here, the first object that met his eyes was 
his beloved father sitting on a bottom stair, with his hat in his hand, shouting out 
“Weller !” in his very loudest tone, at half-minute intetr'als. 

“ Wot are you a roarin’ at .?” said Sam impetuously, when the old gentleman 
had discharged himself of another shout ; “ makin’ yourself so precious hot that you 
looks like a aggrawated glass-blower. Wot’s the matter 

“ Aha !” replied the old gentleman, “ 1 began to be afeerd that you’d gone for 
a walk round the Regency Park, Sammy.” 

“ Come,” said Sam, “ none o’ them taunts agin the wictim o’ avarice, and come 
off that ’ere step. AVot are you a settin’ down there for ? I don’t live there.” 

“ I’ve got such a game for you, Sammy,” said the elder Mr. Weller, rising. 

“ Stop a minit,” said Sam, “ you’re all vite behind.” 

“That’s right, Sammy, rub it off,” said Mr. Weller, as his son dusted him. 
“ It might look personal here, if a man walked about with whitevash on his 
clothes, eh, Sammy .?” 

As Mr. Weller exhibited in this place unequivocal symptoms of an approaching 
fit of chuckling, Sam interposed to stop it. 

“ Keep quiet, do,” said Sam, “ there never vos such a old picter-card bom. 
Wot are you bustin’ vith, now ?” 

“ Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, wiping his forehead, “ I’m afeerd that mno’ these 
days I shall laugh myself into a appleplexy, my boy.” 

“Veil, then, wot do you do it for?” said Sam. “Now; wot have you got 
to say ?” 

“Who do you think’s come here with me, Samivel ?” said Mr. Weller, draw- 
ing back a pace or two, pursing up his mouth, and extending his eyebrows. 

“ Pell ?” said Sam. 

Mr. Weller shook his head, and his red cheek expanded with the laughter that 
was endeavouring to find a vent. 

“Mottled-faced man, p’r’aps?” suggested Sam. 

Again Mr. Weller shook his head. 

“Who then ?” asked Sam. 

“Your mother-in-law,” said Mr. Weller; and it was lucky he did say it, or his 
cheeks mxist inevitably have cracked, from their most unnatural distension. 

“Your mother-in-law, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, “andtlie red-nosed man, 
my boy ; and the red-nosed man. Ho ! ho ! ho ! ” 

With this, Mr. Weller launched into convulsions of laughter, while Sam re- 
garded Kim with a broad giin giadually overspreading his whole countenance. 

“ They’ve come to have a little serious talk with you, Samivel,” said Mr, 
Weller, wiping hiu eves. “ Don’t let out nothin’ about the unnat’ral creditor, 
Sammy.” 


Apoplectic Symptoms. 391 

“Wot, don’t they know who it is ?” inquired Sam. 

“ Not a bit on it,” rt j.lied his father. 

“ Vere are they ?” said Sam, reciprocating all the old gentleman’s grins. 

“ In the snuggery,” rejoined Mr. Weller. “ Catch the red-nosed man a goin* 
any vere but vere the liquors is ; not he, Samivel, not he. Ve’d a wery pleasant 
»-ide along the road from the Markis this raornin’, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, 
when he felt himself equal to the task of speaking in an articulate manner. “1 
drove the old piebald in that ’ere little shay-cart as belonged to your mother-in- 
law’s first wenter, into vich a harm-cheer wos lifted for the shepherd ; and I’m 
blest,” said Mr. Weller, with a look of deep scorn: “ I’m blest if they didn’t 
bring a portable flight o’ steps out into the road a front o’ ou” door, for him to get 
up by.” 

“ You don’t mean that .? ” said Sam. 

“ I do mean that, Sammy,” replied his father, “ and I visb you could ha’ seen 
how tight he held on by the sides wen he did get up, as if he wos afeerd o’ being 
precipitayted down full six foot, and dashed into a million o’ hatoms. He tum- 
bled in at last, however, and avay ve vent ; and I rayther think, I say I rayther 
tliink, Samivel, that he found his self a little jolted wen ve tumed-the corners.” 

“ Wot, I s’pose you happened to drive up agin a post or two ? ” said Sam. 

“ I ’m afeerd,” replied Mr. Weller, in a rapture of winks, “ I 'm afeerd I 
took vun or two on ’em, Sammy ; he wos a flyin’ out o’ the harm-cheer aU the 
w^ay.” 

Here the old gentleman shook his head from side to side, and was seized with 
a hoarse internal rumbling, accompanied with a violent swelling of the counte* 
nance, and a sudden increase in the breadth of all his features ; symptonas which 
alarmed his son not a little. 

“ Don’t be frightened, Sammy, don’t be frightened,” said the old gentlem.an, 
when, by dint of much struggling, and various convulsive stamps upon the ground 
he had recovered his voice. “ It ’s only a kind o’ quiet laugh as I ’m a tryin* tr 
come, Sammy.” 

“ Well, if that ’s wot it is,” said Sam, “you ’d better not try to come it agin 
You ’ll find it rayther a dangerous inwention.” 

“ Don’t you like it, Sammy .? ” inquired the old gentleman. 

“ Not at all,” replied Sam. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Weller, with the tears still running down his cheeks, “ it ’ud 
ha’ been a wery great accommodation to me if I could ha’ done it, and ’ud ha’ 
saved a good many vords atw'een your mother-in-law and me, sometimes ; but I 
am afeerd you ’re right, Sammy ; it ’s too much in the appleplexy line — a deal too 
much, Samivel.” 

This conversation brought them to the door of the snuggery, into which Sam — 
pausing for an instant to look over his shoulder, and cast a sly leer at his respected 
progenitor, who was still giggling behind — at once led the way. 

“ Mother-in-law,” said Sam, politely saluting the lady, “ wery much obliged to 
you for this here wisit. Shepherd, how air you } ” 

“ Oh, Samuel ! ” said Mrs. Weller. “ This is dreadful.” 

“Not a bit on it, mum,” replied Sam. “ Is it, shepherd .? ” 

Mr. Stiggins raised his hands, and turned up his eyes, till the whites — or rather 
the yellows — were alone visible ; but made no reply in words. 

“ Is this here gen’l’m’n troubled vith any painful complaint ? ” said Sam, look- 
ing to his mother-in-law for explanation. 

“ The good man is grieved to see you here, Samuel,” replied M)-5. Weller. 

“ Oh, that ’s it, is it ?” said Sam. “ I was afeerd, from his manner, that he 
might ha’ forgotten to take pepper vith that ’ere last cowcumber he eat. Set 


39 » 


The Pichwick Club, 


down, sir ; ve make no extra charge for the settin’ down, as the king remarked 
wen he blowed up his ministers.” 

Young man,” said Mr. Stiggins, ostentatiously, “I fear you are not softened 
by imprisonment.” 

“Beg your pardon, sir,” replied Sam ; “ wot wos you graciously pleased to hob* 
serve ? ” 

“ I apprehend, young man, that your nature is no softer for this chastening,” 
said Mr. Stiggins, in a loud voice. 

“ Sir,” replied Sam, “you ’re wery kind to say so. I hope my natur is not a 
soft vun, sir. Wery much obliged to you for your good opinion, sir.” 

At this point of the conversation, a sound, indecorously approaching to a laugh, 
was heard to proceed from the chair in which the elder Mr. Weller was seated ; 
upon which Mrs. Weller, on a hasty consideration of all the circumstances of the 
case, considered it her bounden duty to become gradually hysterical. 

“ Weller,” said Mrs. W. (the old gentleman was seated in a corner); “ Weller ! 
Come forth.” 

“ Wery much obleeged to you, my dear,” replied Mr. Weller ; “ but I ’m quite 
comfortable vere I am.” 

Upon this, Mrs. Weller burst into tears. 

“ Wot ’s gone wrong, mum ? ” said Sam. 

“ Oh, Samuel ! ” replied Mrs. Weller, “ your father makes me wretched. Will 
n® thing do him good ? ” 

“ Do you hear this here ?” said Sam. “ Lady wants to know vether nothin’ 
’ull do you good.” 

“ Wery much indebted to Mrs. Weller for her po-lite inquiries, Sammy,” 
replied the old gentleman. “ I think a pipe vould benefit me a good deal. Could 
I be accommodated, Sammy ? ” 

Here Mrs. Weller let fall some more tears, and Mr. Stiggins groaned. 

“ Hallo ! Here ’s this unfort’nate gen’l’m’n took ill agin,” said Sam, looking 
round. “ Were do you feel it now, sir ?” 

“ In the same place, young man,” rejoined Mr. Stiggins ; “in the same place.” 

“Were may that be, sir?” inquired Sam, with great outward simplicity. 

“ In the buzzim, young man,” replied Mr. Stiggins, placing his umbrella on 
his waistcoat. 

At this affecting reply, Mrs. Weller, being wholly unable to suppress her feel- 
ings, sobbed aloud, and stated her conviction that the red-nosed man was a saint ; 
whereupon Mr. Weller, senior, ventured to suggest, in an undertone, that he must 
be the representative of the united parishes of Saint Simon Without, and Saint 
Walker Within. 

“ I ’m afeerd, mum,” said Sam, “ that this here gen’l’m’n, with the twist in his 
countenance, feels rayther thirsty, with the melancholy spectacle afore him. Is it 
the case, mum ?” 

The worthy lady looked at Mr, Stiggins for a reply ; that gentleman, with 
many rollings of the eye, clenched his throat with his right hand, and mimicked 
the act of swallownng, to intimate that he was athirst. 

“ I am afraid, Samuel, that his feelings have made him so, indeed,” said Mrs. 
Weller, mournfully. 

“ Wot ’s your usual tap, sir,” replied Sam. 

“ Oh, my dear young friend,” replied Mr. Stiggins, “ all taps is vanities !” 

“Too true, too true, indeed,” said Mrs. -Weller, murmuring a groan, and 
shaking her head assentingly. 

“Well,” said Sam, “ I des-say they may be, sir; but which is your pardcklei 
Waaity. Vich wanity do you like the flavour on, best, sir ^ ” 


Glace and Gracelessness. 


593 


y Oh, my deal young friend,” replied Mr. Stiggins, “ I despise them all. If,” 
said Mr. Stiggins, “ if there is any one of them less odious than another, it is the 
liquor called rum. Warm, my dear young friend, with three lumps of sugar to the 
tumbler.” 

“ Wery sorry lo say, sir,” said Sam, “that they don’t allow that particular 
wanity to be sold in this here establishment.” 

“ Oh, the hardness of heart of these inveterate men !” ejaculated Mr. Stiggins. 
“ Oh, the accursed cruelty of these inhuman persecutors ! ” 

With these words, Mr. Stiggins again cast up his eyes, and rapped his breast 
with his umbrella ; and it is but justice to the reverend gentleman to say, that his 
indignation aj^peared very real and unfeigned indeed. 

After Airs. Weller and the red-nosed gentleman had commented on this inhu- 
man usage in a very forcible manner, and had vented a variety of pious and holy 
execrations against its authors, the latter recommended a bottle of port wine, 
warmed with a little water, spice, and sugar, as being grateful to the stomach, 
and savouring less of vanity than many other compounds. It was accordingly 
ordered to be prepared. Pending its preparation the red-nosed man and Mrs. 
Weller looked at the elder W. and groaned. 

“ Well, Sammy,” said that gentleman, “ I hope you’ll find your spirits rose by 
this here lively wisit. Weiy cheerful and improvin’ conwersation, ain’t it, 
Sammy ? ” 

“ You’re a reprobate,” replied Sam ; “ and I desire you won’t address no more 
o’ them ungiaceful remarks to me.” 

So far from being edified by this very proper reply, the elder Mr. Weller at 
once relapsed into a broad gi in ; and this inexorable conduct causing the lady and 
Air. Stiggins to close their eyes, and rock themselves to and fro on their chairs* 
in a troubled manner, he furthermore indulged in several acts of pantomime, 
indicative of a desire to pummel and wring the nose of the aforesaid Stiggins : 
the performance of which, appeared to aflbrd him great mental relief. The old 
gentleman very narrowly escaped detection in one instance ; for Air. Stiggins 
happening to give a start on the arrival of the negus, brought his head in smart 
contact with the clenched fist with which Mr. Weller had been describing imagi- 
nary fireworks in the air, within two inches of his ear, for some minutes. 

“ Wot are you a reachin’ out your hand for the tumbler in that ’ere sawage 
way for ? ” said Sam, with great promptitude. “ Don’t you see you’ve hit the 
gen’l’m’n ? ” 

“ I didn’t go to do it, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, in some degree abashed by 
the very unexpected occurrence of the incident. 

“ Try an in’ard application, sir,” said Sam, as the red-nosed gentleman rubbed 
his head with a rueful visage. “Wot do you think o’ that, for a go o’ wanity 
warm, sir ? ” 

Air. Stiggins made no verbal answer, but his manner was expressive. He 
tasted the contents of the glass which Sam had placed in his hand ; put his 
umbrella on the floor, and tasted it again : passing his hand placidly across his 
stomach twice or thrice ; he then draiflc the whole at a breath, and smacking his 
lips, held out the tumbler for more. 

Nor was Airs. Weller behind-hand in doing justice to the composition. The 
good lady began by protesting that she couldn’t touch a drop — then took a small 
drop — then a large drop — then a great many drops; and her feelings being 
of the nature of those substances which are powerfully affected by the application 
of strong waters, she dropped a tear with every drop of negus, and so got on, 
melting the feelings down, until at length she had arrived at a very pathetic and 
dece&t pitch of misery. 


5^4 


The Pickwick Clul, 


The elder Mr. Weller observed these signs and tokens with many manifesta* 
tions of disgust, and when, after a second jug of the same, Mr. Stiggins began to 
sigh in a dismal manner, he plainly evinced his disapprobation of the whole 
proceedings, by sundry incoherent ramblings of speech, among which frequent 
angry repetitions of the word “ gammon” were alone distinguishable to the ear. 

“I’ll tell you wot it is, Samivel, my boy.” whispered the old gentleman into 
his son’s ear, after a long and steadfast contemplation of his lady and Mr. 
Stiggins ; “I think there must be somethin’ wrong in your mother-in-law’s inside, 
as veil as in that o’ the red-nosed man.” 

“ Wot do you mean } ” said Sam. 

“I mean this here, Sammy,” replied the old gentleman, “that wot they drink, 
don’t seem no nourishment to ’em ; it all turns to warm water, and comes a’ 
pourin’ out o’ their eyes. ’Pend upon it, Sammy, it’s a constitootional infirmity.” 

Mr. Weller delivered this scientific opinion with many confirmatory frowns and 
nods ; whick, Mrs. Weller remarking, and concluding that they bore some dis- 
paraging reference either to herself or to Mr. Stiggins, or to both, was on the 
point of becoming infinitely worse, when Mr. Stiggins, getting on his legs as well 
as he could, proceeded to deliver an edifying discourse for the benefit of the 
company, but more especially of Mr. Samuel, whom he adjured in moving 
terms to be upon his guard in that sink of iniquity into which he was cast ; to 
abstain from all hypocrisy and pride of heart; and to take in all things exact 
pattern and copy by him (Stiggins), in which case he might calculate on arriving, 
sooner or later at the comfortable conclusion, that, like him, he was a most 
estimable and blameless character, and that all his acquaintance and friends were 
hopelessly abandoned and profligate wretches. Which consideration, he said, 
could not but afford him the liveliest satisfaction. 

He furthermore conjured him to avoid, above all things, the vice of intoxication, 
which he likened unto the filthy habits of swine, and to those poisonous and 
baleful drugs which being chewed in the mouth, are said to filch away the 
memory. At this point of his discourse, the reverend and red-m -sed gentleman 
became singularly incoherent, and staggering to and fro in the excitement of his 
eloquence, was fain to catch at the back of a chair to preserve his perpendicular. 

Mr. Stiggins did not desire his hearers to be upon their guard against those 
false prophets and wretched mockers of religion, who, without sense to expound 
its first doctrines, or hearts to feel its first principles, are more dangerous members 
of society than the common criminal ; imposing, as they necessarily do, upon 
the weakest and worst informed, casting scorn and contempt on what should 
be held most sacred, and bringing into partial disrepute large bodies of virtuous 
and well conducted persons of many excellent sects and persuasions. But as he 
leant over the back of the chair for a considerable time, and closing one eye, 
winked a good deal with the other, it is presumed that he thought all this, out 
kept it to himself. 

During the delivery of the oration, Mrs. Weller sobbed and wept at the end of 
the paragraphs : while Sam, sitting cross-legged on a chair and resting his anns 
on the top-rail, regarded the speaker with great suavity and blandness of de- 
meanour ; occasionally bestowing a look of recognition on the old gentleman, who 
was delighted at the beginning, and went to sleep about half-way. 

“ Brayvo ; weiy pretty ! ” said Sam, when the red-nosed man ha^^ng finished, 
pulled his worn gloves on : thereby thnisting his fingers throujjh the b'-oken topi 
till the knuckles were disclosed to view. “ Weiy pretty.” 

“ I hope it may do you good, Samuel,” said Mrs. Wellji solemnly. 

“ I think it vill, mum,” replied Sam. 

**1 wish I could hope that it would do youi father good,” said Mrs. Weller. 


Air. IVeder the Elder has a Dark Design, 


395 


“Thankee, my deir,” said Mr. Weller, senior. “How do ^ou find yourseii 
arter it, my love ? ” 

“ Scofier ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Weller. 

“ Benighted man ! ” said the reverend Mr. Stiggins. 

“ If I don’t get no better light than that ’ere moonshine o’ yonin, my worthy 
creetur,” said the elder Mr. Weller, “ it’s wery likely as I shall contlney to be a 
night coach till I’m took ofl' the road altogether. Now, Mrs. We, if the piebald 
stands at lively much longer, he'll stand at nothin’ as we go back, and p’raps 
that ’ere haim cheer ’nil be tipped over into some hedge or another, with the 
shepherd in it.” 

At this supposition, the reverend Mr. Stiggins, in evident consternation, 
gathered up his hat and umbrella, and propo.sed an immediate departure, to 
which Mrs. Weller assented. Sam walked with then? to the lodge-gate, and 
took a dutiful leave. 

“ A-do, Samivel,” said the old gentleman. 

“ Wot’s a-do ?” inquired Sammy. 

“Well, good bye, then,” said the old gentleman. 

“ Oh, that’s wot you’re a aimin’ at, is it said Sam. “ Good bye !” 

“Sammy,” whispered Mr. Weller, looking cautiously round ; “my d'ty to 
j^our gov’ner, and tell him if he thinks better o’ this here bis’ness, to com- 
moonicate vith me. Me and a cab’net-maker has dewised a plan for gettin’ him 
out. A pianner, Samivel, a pianner ! ” said Mr. Weller, striking his son on the 
chest with the back of his hand, and falling back a step or two. 

“Wot do you mean ?” said Sam. 

“ A pianner forty, Samivel,” rejoined Mr. Weller, in a still more mysterious 
manner, “ as he can have on hire ; vun as von’t play, Sammy.” 

“ And wot ’ud be the good o’ that ?” said Sam. 

“ Let him send to my friend, the cab’net-maker, to fetch it back, Sammy,” 
replied Mr. Weller. “ Are you avake, now ?” 

“ No,” rejoined Sam. 

“ There ain’t no vurks in it,” whispered his father. “ It ’ull hold him easy, 
vith his hat and shoes on, and breathe through the legs, vich his holler. Have a 
passage ready taken for ’Meniker. The ’Merrikin gov’ment will never give him 
up, ven they find as he’s got money to spend, Sammy. Let the gov’ner stop 
there, till Mrs. Bardell’s dead, or Mr. Dod.'^on and Fogg’s hung (wicli last ewent 
I think is the most likely to happen first, Sammy), and then let him come back 
and Avrite a book about the ’Meirikins as’ll pay all his expenses and more, if he 
blows ’em up enough.” 

Mr. Weller delivered this hurried abstract of his plot with great vehemence of 
whisper; then, as if fearful of weakening the effect of the tremendous com- 
munication, by any further dialogue, he gave the coachman’s salute, and vanished. 

Sam had scarcely recovered his usual composure of countenance, which had 
been greatly disturbed by the secret communication of his respected relative, 
when Mr. Pickwick accosted him. 

“ Sam,” said that gentleman. 

“ Sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ I am going for a walk round the prison, and I wush you to attend me. I see 
a prisoner we know coming this way, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwi k, smiling. 

“ Wich, sir?” inquired Mr. Weller; “ the gen’l’m’n vith the head o’ hair, or 
the interestin’ captive in the stockin’s ?” 

“ Neither,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick. “ He is an older friend of yours, Sam.” 

“ O’ mine, sir ? ” exclaimed Mr. Weller. 

“ You recollect the gentleman very well, I dare say, Sam,” replied Mr. Pick 


The Pickwick Club. 


39 ^ 

wick, “ or else you are more unmindful of your old acquamtanccij than I think yot 
are. Hush ! not a word, Sam ; not a syllable. Here he is.” 

As Mr. Pickwick spoke, Jingle walked up. He looked less miserable than 
before, being clad in a half-worn suit of clothes, which, with Mr. Piclavick’s 
assistance, had been released from the pawnbroker’s. He wore clean linen too, 
and had had his hair cut. He was very pale and thin, however ; and as he crept 
slowly up, leaning on a stick, it was easy to see that he had suffered severely from 
illness and want, and was still very weak. He took off his hat as Mr. Pickwick 
saluted him, and seemed much humbled and abashed at sight of Sam Weller. 

Following close at his heels, came Mr. Job Trotter, in the catalogue of whose 
vices, want of faith and attachment to his companion could at all events find no 
place. He was still ragged and squalid, but his face was not quite so hollow as on 
his first meeting with Mr. Pickwick, a few days before. As he took off his hat 
to our benevolent old friend, he murmured some broken expressions of gratitude, 
and muttered something about having been saved from starving. 

“Well, well,” said Mr. Pickwick, impatiently interrupting him, “you can 
follow with Sam. I want to speak to you, Mr. Jingle. Can you walk without 
his arm ?” 

“ Certainly, sir — all ready — not too fast — legs shaky — head queer — ^round and 
kound — earthquaky sort of feeling — very.” 

“Here, give me your arm,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ No, no,” replied Jingle ; “ won’t indeed — rather not.” 

“ Nonsense,” said Mr. Pickwick; “ lean upon me, I desire, sir.” 

Seeing that he was confused and agitated, and uncertain what to do, Mr. Pick- 
wick cut the matter short by drawing the invalided stroller’s arm through his, and 
leading him away, without saying another word about it. 

During the whole of this time, the countenance of Mr. Samuel Weller had 
exhibited an expression of the most overwhelming and absorbing astonishment 
that the imagination can portray. After looking from Job to Jingle, and from 
Jingle to Job in profound silence, he softly ejaculated the words, “ Well, I am 
damn’d ! ” Which he repeated at least a score of times ; after which exertion, he 
appeared wholly bereft of speech, and again cast his eyes, first upon the one and 
then upon the other, in mute perplexity and bewilderment. 

“ Now, Sam !” said Mr. Pickwick, looking back. 

“ I’m a cornin’, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, mechanically following his master ; 
and still he lifted not his eyes from Mr. Job Trotter, who walked at his side, ir 
silence. 

Job kept his eyes fixed on the ground for some time. Sam, with his glued to 
Job’s countenance, ran up against the people who were walking about, and fell 
over little children, and stumbled against steps and railings, without appearing at 
all sensible of it, until Job, looking stealthily up, said ; 

“ How do you do, Mr. Weller ?” 

“ It is him ! ” exclaimed Sam ; and having established Job’s identity beyond all 
doubt, he smote his leg, and vented his feelings in a long shrill whistle. 

“ Things has altered with me, sir,” said Job. 

“ I should think they had,” exclaimed Mr. Weller, surveying his companion’s 
rags with undisguised wonder. “ This is rayther a change for the worse, Mr. 
Trotter, as the gen’l’m’n said, wen he got two doubtful shillin’s and sixpenn’orth 
o’ pocket pieces for a good half-crown.” 

“ It is, indeed,” replied Job, shaking his head. “ There is no deception now, 
Mr. Weller. Tears,” said Job, with a look of momentary slyness, “tears are 
not the only proofs of distress, nor the best ones.” 

** No, the} ain’t,” replied Sam, expressively. 


Down, hut Spared. 


39 ? 


** They may be put on, Mr. Weller,” said Job. 

**I know they may,” said Sam ; “some people, indeed, has ’em always ready 
laid on, and can pull out the plug wenever they likes.” 

“ Yes,” replied Job ; “ but these sort of things are not so easily counterfeited, 
Mr. Weller, and it is a more painful process to get them up.” As he spoke, he 
pointed to his sallow sunken cheeks, and, drawing up his coat sleeves, disclosed an 
srm which looked as if the bone could be broken at a touch : so sharp and brittle 
did it appear, beneath its thin covering of flesh. 

“ Wot have you been a doin’ to yourself?” said Sam, recoiling. 

“ Nothing,” replied Job. 

Nothin’ !” echoed Sam. 

“ I have been doin’ nothing for many weeks past,” said Job ; “ and eating and 
drinking almost as little.” 

Sam took one comprehensive glance at Mr. Trotter’s thin face and wretched 
apparel ; and then, seizing him by the arm, commenced dragging him away with 
great violence. 

“Where are you going, Mr. Weller?” said Job, vainly struggling in the 
powerful grasp of his old enemy. 

“Come on,” said Sam; “come on!” He deigned no further explanation 
until they reached the tap , and then called for a pot of porter, which was speedily 
produced. 

“ Now,” said Sam, “ drink that up, ev’ry drop on it, and then turn the pot 
upside down, to let me see as you’ve took the med’cine.” 

“ But, my dear Mr. Weller,” remonstrated Job. 

“ Domti vith it !” said Sam, peremptorily. 

Thus admonished, Mr. Trotter raised the pot to his lips, and, by gentle and 
almost imperceptible degrees, tilted it into the air. He paused once, and only 
once, to draw a long breath, but without raising his face from the vessel, which, in 
a few moments thereafter, he held out at arm’s length, bottom upward. Nothing 
fell upon the ground but a few particles of froth, which slowly detached themselves 
from the rim, and trickled lazily down. 

“Well done 1 ” said Sam. “ How do you find yourself arter it ? ” 

“ Better, sir. I think I am better,” responded Job. 

“ O’ course you air,” said Sam, argumentatively. “ It’s like puttin’ gas in a 
balloon. I can see with the naked eye that you gets stouter under the operation. 
Wot do you say to another o’ the same di-mensions ? ” 

“ I would rather not, I am much obliged to you, sir,” replied Job, “ much 
rather not!” 

“ Veil, then, wot do you say to some wittles ? ” inquired Sam. 

“ Thanks to yom- worthy governor, sir,” said Mr. Trotter, “ we have half a leg 
of mutton, baked, at a quarter before three, with the potatoes under it to save 
boiling.” 

“Wot I Has he been a purwidin’ for you ? ” asked Sam, emphatically. 

“ He has, sir,” replied Job. “ More than that, Mr. Weller ; my master being 
very ill, he got us a room — we were in a kennel before — and paid for it, sir ; 
and come to look at us, at night, when nobody should know. Mr. Weller,” said 
Job, with real tears in his eyes, for once, “ I could serve that gentleman till I fell 
down dead at his feet.” 

“ 1 say ! ” said Sam, “ I’ll trouble you, my friend ! None o’ that I ” 

Job Trotter looked amazed. 

“ None o’ that, I say, young feller,” repeated Sam, firmly. “ No man serves 
him but me. And now we’re upon it. I’ll let you into another secret besides that,*’ 
said Sam, as he paid for the beer. “ I never heerd, mind you, nor read of in 


398 


The Pickwick Cluh, 


ulory-books, nor see in picters, any angel in tights and gaiters — not even 'm spec* . 
tacles, as I remember, though that may ha’ been done for anythin’ I know to the 
contrairey — but mark my vords, Job Trotter, he’s a reg’lar thorough-bred angel 
for all that ; and let me see the man as wenturs to tell me he knows i better vun.” 
With this defiance, Mr. Weller buttoned up his change in a side pocket, and, 
with many confirmatory nods and gestures by the way proceeded in search of the 
subject of discourse. 

They found Mr. Pickwick, in company with Jingle, talking very earnestly, and 
not bestowing a look on the groups who were congregated on the racket-ground ; 
they were veiy motley groups too, and worth the looking at, if it were only in 
idle curiosity. 

“ Well,” said Mr. Pickwick, as Sam and his companion drew nigh, “you -will 
see how your health becomes, and think about it meanwhile. Make the statement 
out for me when you feel yourself equal to the task, and I will discuss the subject 
with you when I have considered it. Now, go to your room. You are tired, and 
not strong enough to be out long.” 

Mr. Alfred Jingle, without one spark of his old animation — with nothing even 
of the dismal gaiety which he had assumed when Mr. Pickwick first stumbled on 
him in his misery — bowed low without speaking, and, motioning to Job not to 
follow him just yet, crept slowly away. 

“ Curious scene this, is it not, Sam ? ” said Mr. Pickwick, looking good- 
humouredly round. 

“ Wery much so, sir,” replied Sam. “ Wonders ’ull never cease,” added Sam, 
speaking to himselfi “ I’m wery much mistaken if that ’ere Jingle wom’t a doin’ 
somethin’ in the water-cart way ! ” 

The area formed by the wall in that part of the Fleet in which Mr. Piclavick 
stood, was just wide enough to make a good racket court ; one side being fonned, 
of course, by the wall itself, and the other by that portion of the prison which 
looked (or rather would have looked, but for the wall) towards St. Paul’s Cathedral. 
Sauntering or sitting about, in every possible attitude of listless idleness, were a 
great number of debtors, the major part of whom were waiting in prison until their 
day of “ going up ” before the Insolvent Court should arrive ; while others had 
been remanded for various terms, which they were idling away, as they best could. 
Some were shabby, some were smart, many dirty, a few clean ; but there they all 
lounged, and loitered, and slunk about, with as little spirit or purpose as the beasts 
in a menagerie. 

Lolling from the windows which commanded a view of this promenade, were a 
number of persons, some in noisy conversation with their acquaintance below, 
others playing at ball with some adventurous throwers outside, others looking 
on at the racket-players, or watching the boys as they cried the game. Dirty slip- 
shod women passed and re-passed, on their way to the cooking-house in one comer 
of the yard ; children screamed, and fought, and played together, in another ; the 
tumbling of the skittles, and the shouts of the players, mingled perpetually with 
these and a hundred other sounds ; and all was noise and tumult — save in a little' 
miserable shed a few yards off, where lay, all quiet and ghastly, the body of the 
Chanceiy prisoner who had died the night before, awaiting the mockery of an 
inquest. The body ! It is the law^^er’s term for the restless whirling mass of cares 
and anxieties, affections, hopes, and griefs, that make up the living man. The law 
had his body ; and theie it lay, clothed in grave clothes, an awful witness to its 
tender mercy. 

“ Would you like to see a whistling-shop, sir } ” inquired Job Trotter. 

“ What do you mean } ” was Mr. Pickwick’s counter inquiry. 

“ A vistlin’ shop <iir,” interposed Mr. Weller. 


3i^ 


A Whistling Shop. 

" I — , . . , ■ „ ,—■> — ^ — — ■ ■■ , , 

** What is that, Sam ? A bird-fancier’s ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“Bless your heart, no, sir,” replied Job ; “a whistling-shop, sir, is where they 
sell spirits.” Mr. Job Trotter briefly explained here, that all persons, being pro- 
hibited under heavy penalties from conveying spirits into debtor’s prisons, and 
such commodities being highly prized by the ladies and gentlemen confined 
therein, it had occurred to some speculative turnkey to connive, for certain lucra- 
tive considerations, at two or three prisoners retailing the favourite article of gin, 
for their own profit and advantage. 

“ This plan you see, sir, has been giadually introduced into all the prisons for 
debt,” said Mr. Trotter. 

“And it has this wery gi-eat advantage,” said Sam, “that the turnkeys takes 
M'ery good care to seize hold o’ ev’ry body but them as pays ’em, that attempts the 
willainy, and wen it gets in the papers they’re applauded for their \vigilance ; so It 
cuts two ways — frightens other people from the trade, and elewates their own 
characters.” 

“ Exactly so, Mr. AVeller,” observed Job. 

“ Well, but are these rooms never searched, to ascertain whether any spirits are 
concealed in them t ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Cert’nly they are, sir,” replied Sam ; “but the turnke5's knows beforehand, 
and gives tne word to the wistlers, and you may wistle for it wen you go to look.” 

By this time. Job had tapped at a door, which was opened by a gentleman with 
an uncombed head, who bolted it after them when they had walked in, and 
grinned ; upon which Job grinned, and Sam also ; whereupon Mr. Pickwick, 
thinking it might be expected of him, kept on smiling to the end of the interview. 

The gentleman with the uncombed head appeared quite satisfied with this mute 
announcement of their business, and, producing a flat stone bottle, which might 
hold about a couple of quarts, from beneath his bedstead, filled out three 
glasses of gin, which Job Trotter and Sam disposed of in a most workmanlike 
manner. 

“ Any more said the whistling gentleman. 

“ No more,” replied Job Trotter. 

Mr. Pickwick paid, the door was unbolted, and out they came ; the uncombed 
gentleman bestowing a friendly nod upon Mr. Roker, who happened to be passing 
at the moment. 

From this spot, Mr. Pickwick wandered along all the galleries, up and down 
all the staircases, and once again round the whole area of the yard. The great 
body of the prison population appeared to be Mivins, and Smangle, and the 
parson, and the butcher, and the leg, over and over, and over again. There were 
the same squalor, the same turmoil and noise, the same general characteristics, in 
every corner ; in the best and the worst alike. The whole place seemed restless 
and troubled ; and the people were crowding and flitting to and fro, like the 
shado ws in an uneasy di eam. 

“ I have seen enough,” said Mr. Pickwick, as he threw himself into a chair in 
his little apartment, “ My head aches with these scenes, and my heart too. 
Hencefort’.i 1 will be a prisoner in my own room.” 

And Mr. Pickwick steadfastly adhered to this determination. For three long 
months he remained shut up, all day ; only stealing out at night, to breathe the 
air, wdien the greater part of his fellow prisoners were in bed or carousing in their 
rooms. His health was beginning to suffer from the closeness of the confine- 
ment, but neither the often-repeated entreaties of Perker and his friends, nor the 
still ro^re frequently-repeated warnings and admonitions of Mr. Samuel Welleti 
could induce him to alter one jot of his inflexible resolution. 


400 


The Pickwick Club. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

RECORDS A TOUCHING ACT OF DELICATE FEELING, NOT UNMIXED WITH PLEA- 
SANTRY, ACHIEVED AND PERFORMED BY MESSRS. DODSON AND FOGG. 

iT was within a week of the close of the month of July, that a hackney 
cabriolet, nunr.ber unrecorded, was seen to proceed at a rapid pace up Goswell 
Street ; three people were squeezed into it besides the driver, who sat in his 
own particular little dickey at the side ; over the apron were hung tw’O shawls, 
belonging to two small vixenish-looking ladies under the apron ; betw'een whom, 
compressed into a very small compass, was stowed away, a gentleman of heavy 
and subdued demeanour, who, whenever he ventured to make an observation, 
was snapped up short by one of the vixenish ladies before-mentioned. Lastly, 
the Iw'o vixenish ladies and the heavy gentleman were giving the driver con- 
tradictory directions, all tending to the one point that he should stop at 
Mrs. Bardell’s door ; which the heavy gentleman, in direct opposition to, and 
defiance of, the vixenish ladies, contended was a green door and not a yellow 
one. 

“ Stop at the house with the gieen door, driver,” said the heavy gentleman. 

“ Oh ! You perwerse creetur !” exclaimed one of the vixenish ladies. “ Drive 
to the ouse with the yellow door, cabmin.” 

Upon this, the cabman, who in a sudden effort to pull up at the house with the 
green door, had pulled the horse up so high that he nearly pulled him backward 
into the cabriolet, let the animal’s fore legs down to the ground again, and paused. 

“Now vere am I to pull up inquired the driver. “ Settle it among your- 
selves. All I ask is, vere 

Here the contest was renewed with increased violence ; and the horse being 
troubled w'ith a fly on his nose, the cabman humanely employed his leisure ic 
lashing him about on the head, on the counter-irritation principle. 

“ Most wotes carries the day ! ” said one of the vixenish ladies at length. “The 
ouse with the yellow door, cabmin.” 

But after the cabriolet had dashed up, in splendid style, to the house with the 
yellow door: “making,” as one of the vixenish ladies triumphantly said, 
“ acterrally more noise than if one had come in one’s own carriage” — and after 
the driver had dismounted to assist the ladies in getting out — the small round head 
of Master Thomas Bardell was thrust out of the one pair window of a house with 
a red door, a f* w numbers off. 

“ Aggrawatiii’ thing ! ” said the vixenish lady last mentioned, darting a withering 
glance at the heavy gentleman. 

“ My dear, it ’s not my fault,” said the gentleman. 

“Don’t ta’Jc to me, you creetur, don’t,” retorted the lady. “ The house with 
the red door, cabmin. Oh ! If ever a woman was troubled with a ruffinly creetur, 
that takes a pride and a pleasure in disgracing his wife on every possible occasion 
afore strangers, I am that woman !” 

“ You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Raddle,” said the other little woman, 
who was no other than Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ What have I been a doing of?” asked Mr. Raddle. 

“ Don’t talk to me. don’t, you brute, for fear I should be perwoked to forgit my 
sect and strike you ! ” said Mrs. Raddle. 

While this dialogue was going on, the driver was most ignominiously leading 
Ae horse, by the bridle, up to the house with the red door, which Master Bardell 


Mastty Bardell is 7/?2 communicative. 


401 


had already opened. Here was a mean and low way of arriving at a friend’s 
house ! No dashing up, with all the fire and fury of the animal ; no jumping 
down of the driver ; no loud knocking at the door ; no opening of the apron 
with a crash at the very last moment, for fear of the ladies sitting in a draugiit ; 
and then the man handing the shawls out, afterwards, as if he were a prR’ate 
coachman ! The whole edge of the thing had been taken off; it was flatter than 
walking., 

“ Well, Tommy,” said Mrs. Cluppins, “ How’s your poor dear mother ? ” 

“ Oh, she’s very well,” replied Master Bardell. “ She’s in the front parlour, 
all ready. I’m ready too, I am.” Here Master Bardell put his hands in his 
pockets, and jumped off and on the bottom step of the door. 

“ Is anybody else a goin’. Tommy ? ” said Mrs. Cluppins, arranging her 
pelerine. 

“ Mrs. Sanders is going, she is,” replied Tommy, “ I’m going too, I am.” 

“ Drat the boy,” said little Mrs. Cluppins. “ He thinlcs of nobody but himseli. 
Here, Tommy, dear.” 

“ Well,” said Master Bardell. 

“ Who else is a goin’, lovey ? ” said Mrs. Cluppins in an insinuating manner. 

“ Oh ! Mrs. Rogers is a goin’,” replied Master Bardell, opening his eyes very 
wide as he delivered the intelligence. 

“ What ! The lady as has taken the lodgings ! ” ejaculated Mrs. Cluppins. 

Master Bardell put his hands deeper down into his pockets, and nodded exactly 
thirty-five times, to imply that it was the lady lodger, and no other. 

“ Bless us ! ” said Mrs. Cluppins. “ It’s quite a party ! ” 

“ Ah, if you knew what was in the cupboard, you’d say so,” replied Master 
Bardell. 

“ What is there. Tommy ? ” said Mrs. Cluppins, coaxingly. “You’ll tell me. 
Tommy, I know.” 

“ No, I won’t,” replied Master Bardell, shaking his head, and applying him- 
self to the bottom step again. 

“ Drat the child ! ” muttered Mrs. Cluppins. “ What a prowokin’ little wretch 
it is ! Come, Tommy, tell your dear Cluppy.” 

“ Mother said I wasn’t to,” rejoined JSiaster Bardell, “ I’m a goin’ to have 
some, I am.” Cheered by this prospect, the precocious boy applied himself to 
his infantile treadmill, with increased vigour. 

The above examination of a child of tender years, took place while Mr. and 
Mrs. Raddle and the cab-driver were having an altercation concerning the fare : 
which, terminating at this point in favour of the cabman, Mrs. Raddle came up 
tottering. 

“ Dauk, Mary Ann ! what’s the matter ? ” said Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ It’s put me all over in such a tremble, Betsy,” replied Mrs. Raddle. “ Raddle 
ain’t like a man ; he leaves everythink to me.” 

This was scarcely fair upon the unfortunate Mr. Raddle, who had been thrust 
aside by his good lady in the commencement of the dispute, and peremptorily 
commanded to hold his tongue. He had no opportunity of defending himself, 
however, for Mrs. Raddle gave unequivocal signs of fainting ; which, being per- 
ceived from the parlour window, Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, the lodger, and the 
lodger’s seiwant, darted precipitately out, and conveyed her into the house : all 
talking at the same time, and giving utterance to various expressions of pity and 
condolence, as if she were one of the most suffering mortals on earth. Being con- 
veyed into the front parlour, she was there deposited on a sofa ; and the lady from 
the first floor running up to the first floor, returned with a bottle of sal volatile, 
which, holding Mrs. Raddle tight round the neck, she applied in all womanly 

i) u 


The Pickwick Club. 


402 

kindness and pity to her nose, until that lady with many p^unge^ and stniggles 
was fain to declare herself decidedly better. 

“Ah, poor thing!” said Mrs. Rogers, “I know what her feclin’s is, too 
well.” 

“ Ah, j'oor thing I so do I,” said Mrs. Sanders ; and then all the ladies moaned 
in unison, and said they knew what it was, and they pitied her from theii hearts, 
they did. Even the lodger’s little servant, who was thirteen years old, and thiew 
feet high, murmured her sympathy. 

“ But what’s bes^n the matter ? ” said Mrs. Bardell. 

“ Ah, what has decomposed you, ma’am ? ” inquired Mrs. Rogers. 

“ I have been a good deal Hurried,” replied Mrs. Raddle, in a reproachful 
manner. Thereupon the ladies cast indignant looks at Mr. Raddle. 

“ Why, the fact is,” said that unhappy gentleman, stepping forward, “ when 

we alighted at this door, a dispute arose with the driver of the cabrioily ” A 

loud scream from his wife, at the mention of this word, rendered all further expla- 
nation inaudible. 

“ You’d better leave us to bring her round, Raddle,” said Mrs. Cluppins. 
“ She’ll never get better as long as you’re here.” 

All the ladies concurred in this opinion ; so Mr. Raddle was pushed out of the 
room, and requested to give himself an airing in the back yard. Which he did for 
about a quarter of an hour, when Mrs. Bardell announced to him with a solemn 
face that he might come in now, but that he must be very careful how he behaved 
towards his wife. She knew he didn’t mean to be unkind ; but Mary Ann was 
very far from strong, and, if he didn’t take care, he might lose her when he least 
expected it, w'hich would be a very dreadful reflection for him afterwards ; and so 
on. All this, Mr. Raddle heard wdth great submission, and presently returned to 
the parlour in a most lamb-like manner. 

“Why, Mrs. Rogers, ma’am,” said Mrs. Bardell, “you’ve never been intro- 
duced, I declare I Mr. Raddle, ma’am ; Mrs. Cluppins, ma’am ; Mrs. Raddle, 
ma’am.” 

“ Which is Mrs. Cluppins’s sister,” suggested Mrs. Sanders. 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” said Mrs. Rogers, graciously ; for she was the lodger, and her 
servant was in waiting, so she was more gracious than intimate, in right of her 
po. ition. “ Oh, indeed ! ” 

• Mrs. Raddle smiled sweetly, hir. Raddle bowed, and Mrs. Cluppins said “she 
wa‘s sure she w'as verry happy to have a opportunity of being known to a lady 
which she had heerd so much in faviour of, as Mrs. Rogers.” A compliment 
which the last-named lady acknowledged with giaceful condcscensipn. 

“Well, Mr. Raddle,” said Mrs. Bardell; “I’m sure you ought to feel very 
much honoured at you and Tommy being the only gentlemen to escort so many 
ladies all the w'ay to the Spaniards, at Hampstead. Don’t you think he ought, 
Mrs. Rogers, ma’am ? ” 

“ Oh, certainly, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Rogers ; after whom all the other ladies 
responded “ Oh, certainly.” 

“ Of course I feel it, ma’am,” said Mr. Raddle, rubbing his hands, and evincing 
a slight tendency to brighten up a little. “ Indeed, to tell you the truth, I said, as 
we was a coming along in the cabrioily ” 

At the recapitulation of the word which awakened so many painful recollections, 
Mrs. Raddle applied her handkerchief to her eyes again, and uttered a half- 
suppressed scream ; so Mrs. Bardell frowned upon Mr. Raddle, to intimate that 
he had better not say anything more, and desired Mrs. Rogers’s servant, with 
an air, to “ put the wine on.” 

This was the signal for displaying the hidden treasures of the closet, which com 


Unmaiily Conduct of Mr. Raddle. 


403 


prised sundry plates of oranges and biscuits, and a bottle of old crusted port — that 
at one and nine — with another of the celebrated East India sherry at fourteen 
pence, which were all produced in honour of the lodger, and afforded unlimited 
satisfaction to eveiybody. After great consternation.had been excited in the mind of 
Mrs. Cluppins, by an attempt on the part of Tommy to recount how he had been 
cross-examind regarding the- cupboard then in action, (which was fortunately nipped 
in the bud by his imbibing hall a glass of the old crusted “ the wrong way,” and 
thereby endangering his life for some seconds,) the party walked forth, in quest of 
a Hampstead stage. This was soon found, and in a couple of hours they all arrived 
safely in the Spaniards Tea-gardens, where the luckless Mr. Raddle’s very first 
act nearly occasioned his good lady a relapse ; it being neither more nor less than 
to order tea for seven, whereas (as the ladies one and all remarked), what could 
have been easier than for Tommy to have drank out of anybody’s cup — or every- 
body’s, if that was all — when the waiter wasn’t looking : which would have saved 
one head of tea, and the tea just as good ! 

However, there was no help for it, and the tea-tray came, with seven cups and 
saucers, and bread and butter on the same scale. Mrs. Bardell was unanimously 
voted into the chair, and Mrs. Rogers being stationed on her right hand, and Mrs. 
Raddle on her left, the meal proceeded with gi-eat meiriment and success. 

“How sweet the country is, to-be-sure!” sighed Mrs. Rogers; “I almost 
wish I lived in it always.” 

“ Oh, you wouldn’t like that, ma’am,” replied Mrs. Bardell, rather hastily; for 
it was not at all advisable, with reference to the lodgings, to encourage such 
notions ; “ you wouldn’t like it, ma’am.” 

“ Oh ! I should think you was a deal too lively and sought-after, to be content 
with the country, ma’am,” said little Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ Perhaps I am, ma’am. Perhaps I am,” sighed the first-floor lodger. 

“ For lone people as have got nobody to care for them, or take care of them, 
or as have been hurt in their mind, or that kind of thing,” observed Mr. Raddle, 
plucking up a little cheerfulness, and looking round, “ the country is all very weU. 
The country for a wounded spirit, they say.” 

Now, of all things in the world that the unfortunate man could have said, any 
would have been preferable to this. Of course Mrs. Bardell burst into tears, and 
requested to be led from the table instantly ; upon which the affectionate child 
began to cry too, most dismally. 

“ Would anybody believe, ma’am,” exclaimed Mrs. Raddle, turning fiercely 
to the first-floor lodger, “that a woman could be married to such a unmanly 
creetur, which can tamper with a woman’s feelings as he does, every hour in the 
day, ma’am } ” 

“ My dear,” remonstrated Mr. Raddle, “ I didn’t mean anything, my dear.” 

“You didn’t mean!” repeated Mrs. Raddle, with great scorn and contempt. 
“ Go away. I can’t bear the sight on you; you brute.” 

“ You must not flurry yourself, Mary Ann,” interposed Mrs. Cluppins. “You 
really must consider yourself, my dear, which you never do. Now go away. 
Raddle, there’s a good soul, or you’ 11 only aggravate her.” 

“ You had better take your tea by yourself, sir, indeed,” said Mrs. Rogers, 
again applpng the smelling-bottle. 

Mr 3 . Sanders, who according to custom was very busy with the bread and 
butter, expressed the same opinion, and Mr. Raddle quietly retired. 

After this, there was a great hoisting up of Master Bardell, who was rather 
a large size for hugging, into his mother’s arms : in which operation he got his 
boots in the tea-board, and occasioned some confusion among the cups and saucers. 
But that description of fainting fits, which is contagious among ladies, seldom 


4C4 


The Pickwick Club. 


lasts Ic'tig ; so when he had been w^ell kissed, and a little cried over, Mrs. Bardell 
recovered, set him dowm again, wondered how she could have been so foolish, and 
poured out some more tea. 

It was at this moment, that the sound of approaching wheels was heard, and 
that the ladies, looking up, saw a hackney-coach stop at the garden-gate. 

“ jNIore company ! ” said Mrs. Sanders. 

It ’s a gentleman,” said Mrs. Raddle. 

“ Well, if it ain’t Mr. Jackson, the young man from Dodson and Fogg’s! ” 
cried Mrs. Bardell. “ Why, giacious ! Surely Mr. Pickwick can’t have paid the 
damages.” 

“ Or hoffered marriage ! ” said Mrs. Cluppins. 

“ Dear me, how slow the gentleman is,” exclaimed Mrs. Rogers ; “ Why 
doesn’t he make haste I ” 

As the lady spoke these words, Mr. Jackson turned from the coach where he 
had been addressing some obseiwations to a shabby man in black leggings, who 
had just emerged from the vehicle with a thick ash stick in his hand, and made 
his way to the place where the ladies were seated ; winding his hair round the 
brim of his hat as he came along. 

“Is anything the matter? Has anything taken place, Mr. Jackson?” said 
Mrs. Bardell, eagerly. 

“Nothing whatever, ma’am,” replied Mr. Jackson. “ How de do, ladies ? I 
have to ask pardon, ladies, for intruding — but the law, ladies — the law.” With 
this apology Mr. Jackson smiled, made a comprehensive bow, and gave his hair 
another wind. Mrs. Rogers whispered Mrs. Raddle that he was really a 
elegant young man. 

“ I called in Goswell Street,” resumed Jackson, “ and hearing that you were 
here, from the slavey, took a coach and came on. Our people want you down in 
the city directly, Mrs. Bardell.” 

“Lori” ejaculated that lady, starting at the sudden nature of the com- 
munication. 

“ Yes,” said Jackson, biting his lip. “ It’s very important and pressing 
business, which can’t be postponed on any account. Indeed, Dodson expressly 
said so to me, and so did Fogg. I’ve kept the coach on purpose for you to go 
back in.” 

“ How very strange ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. 

The ladies agreed that it -was very strange, but were unanimously of opinion 
that it must be very important, or Dodson and Fogg would never have sent ; 
and further, that the business being urgent, she ought to repair to Dodson and 
Fogg’s without any delay. 

There was a certain degree of pride and importance about being wanted by one’s 
lawyers in such a monstrous hurry, that was by no means displeasing to Mrs. 
Bardell, especially as it might be reasonably supposed to enhance her consequence 
in the eyes of the first-floor lodger. She simpered a little, affected extreme 
vexation and hesitation, and at last arrived at the conclusion that she supposed she 
must go. 

“ But won’t you refresh yourself after your wallc, Mr. Jackson ? ” said Mrs. 
Bardell, persuasively. 

“ Why, really there ain’t much time to lose,” replied Jackson ; “ and I’ve got 
a friend here,” he continued, looking towards the man with the ash stick. 

“ Oh, ask your friend to come here, sir,” said Mrs, Bardell. “ Pray ask your 
friend here, sir.” 

“Why, thankee, I’d rather not,” said Mr. Jackson, with some embarrassment 
•f manner. “ He’s not much used to ladies’ society, and it makes him bashful 


special Messenger for Mrs. Bardell. 405 

If you 11 or Jer the waiter to deliver him anything short, he won't drintc it off at 
once, won’t he I — only tiy him ! ” Mr. Jackson’s fingers wandered playfully round 
his nose, at this portion of his discourse, to warn his hearers that he was speaking 
ironically. 

The waiter was at once despatched to the bashful gentleman, and the bashful 
gentlernan took something ; Mr. Jackson also took something, and the ladies took 
something, for hospitality’s sake. Mr. Jackson then said he was afraid it was 
time to go ; upon which, Mrs. Sanders, Mrs. Cluppins, and Tommy (who it was 
arranged should accompany Mrs. Bardell ; leaving the others to Mr. Raddle’s 
protection), got into the coach. 

’ “ Isaac,” said Jackson, as Mrs. Bardell prepared to get in : looking up at the 

man with the ash stick, who was seated on the box, smoking a cigar, 

“Well.?” 

“ This is Mrs. Bardell.” 

“ Oh, I know’d that, long ago,” said the man. 

Mrs. Bardell got in, Mr. Jackson got in after her, and away they drove. Mrs. 
Bardell could not help ruminating on what Mr. Jackson’s fiiend had said. Shrewd 
creatures, those lawyers. Lord bless us, how they find people out ! 

“ Sad thing about these costs of our people’s, ain’t it,” said Jackson, when 
Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders had fallen asleep ; “ your bill of costs I mean ?” 

“ I’m very sorry they can’t get them,” replied Mrs. Bardell. “ But if you law- 
gentlemen do these things on speculation, why you must get a loss now and then, 
you know.” 

“You gave them a cognovit for the amount of your costs, after the trial, I’m 
told .? ” said Jackson. 

“ Yes. Just as a matter of form,” replied Mrs. Bardell. 

“ Certainly,” replid Jackson, drily. “ Quite a matter of form. Quite.” 

On they drove, and Mrs. Bardell fell asleep. She was awakened, after some 
time, by the stopping of the coach. 

“ Bless us !” said the lady. “ Are we at Freeman’s Court .?” 

“ We’re not going quite so far,” replied Jackson. “ Have the goodness to step 
out.” 

Mrs. Bardell, not yet thoroughly awake, complied. It was a curious place : 
a large wall, with a gate in the middle, and a gas-light burning inside. 

“Now ladies,” cried the man with the ash stick, looking into the coach, and 
shaking Mrs. Sanders to wake her, “ Come !” Rousing her friend, Mrs. Sanders 
alighted Mrs. Bardell, leaning on Jackson’s arm, and leading Tommy by the 
hand, had already entered the porch. They followed. 

The room they turned into, was even more odd-looking than the porch. Such 
a number of men standing about ! And they stared so ! 

“ What place is this .?” inquired Mrs. Bardell, pausing, 

“ Only one of our public offices,” replied Jackson, hurrying her through a door, 
and looldng round to see that the other women were following. “ Look sharp, 
Isaac!” 

“Safe and. sound,” replied the man with the ash stick. The door sming 
heavily after them, and they descended a small flight of steps. 

“ Here we are, at last. All right and tight, Mrs. Bardell ! ” said Jackson, look- 
ing exultingly round. 

“ Wliat do you mean .? ” said Mrs. Bardell, with a palpitating heart. 

“Just this,” replied Jackson, drawing her a little on one side; “don’t be 
fiightened, Mrs. Bardell. There never was a more delicate man than Dodson, ma’am, 
or a more humane man than Fogg. It was their duty, in the way of business, to 
take you in execution for them costs ; but they were anxious to spare your feeling? 


4o5 


The Pickwick Club, 

as much as they could. Wliat a comfort it must be, to you, to thinic how it’s 
been done ! This is the Fleet, ma’am. Wish you good night, Mrs. Bardell. 

Good night, Tommy ! ” . , , i • i 

As Jackson hurried away in company with the man with the ash stick, anotnei 
man with a key in his hand, who had been looking on, led the bewildered female 
to a second short flight of steps leading to a dooiway. Mrs. Bardell screamed 
violently ; Tommy roared ; Airs. Cluppins shrunk within herself ; and Mrs. Sanders 
made otf, without more ado. For, there, stood the injured Mr. Piclavick, taking 
his nightly allowance of air; and beside him leant Samuel Weller, who, seeing 
Mrs. Bardell, took his hat off with mock reverence, while his master turned in- 
dignantly on his heel. . . 

“ Don’t bother the woman,” said the turnkey to Weller; “ she’s just come in. 

“ A pris’ner ! ” said Sam, quickly replacing his hat. “ Who’s the piaintives } 
What for ? Speak up, old feller.” _ ^ 

“ Dodson and Fogg,” replied the man ; “ execution on cognovit for costs. 

Here Job, Job ! ” shouted Sam, dashing into the passage. “ Run to Mr. Perker’s, 
Job. /want him directly. I see some good in this. Here’s a game. Hooray ! 

were’s the gov’nor ! ” -at. 

But there was no reply to these inquiries, for Job had started furiously on, the 
instant he received his commission, and Airs. Bardell had fainted in real down- 
right earnest. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

IS CHIEFLY DEVOTED TO MATTERS OF BUSINESS, AND THE TEMPORAL ADVAN- 
TAGE OF DODSON AND FOGG. MR. WINKLE RE-APPEARS UNDER EXTRA- 
ORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCES. MR. PICKWICK’S BENEVOLENCE PROVES 
STRONGER THAN HIS OBSTINACY. 

Job Trotter, abating nothing of his speed, ran up Holbom : sometimes in the 
middle of the road, sometimes on the pavement, sometimes in the gutter, as 
the chances of getting along, varied with the press of men, women, children, and 
coaches, in each division of the thoroughfare ; regardless of all obstacles, he 
slopped not for an instant until he reached the gate of Gray’s Inn. Notwithstand- 
ing all the expedition he had used, however, the gate had been closed a good half 
hour when he reached it, and by the time he had discovered Air. Perker’s laundress, 
who lived with a married daughter, who had bestowed her hand upon a non- 
resident waiter, who occupied the one-pair of some number in some street closely 
adjoining to some brewery somewhere behind Gray’s Inn Lane, it was within 
fi.'teen minutes of closing the prison for the night. Air. Lowten had still to be 
Lneted out from the back parlour of the Alagpie and Stump ; and Job had scarcely 
accomplished this object, and communicated Sam WeUer’s message, when the 
clock struck ten. 

“ There,” said Lowten, “it’s too late now* You can’t get in to-night ; “you’ve 
got the key of the street, my friend.” 

“ Never mind me,” replied Job. “ I can sleep anywhere. But won’t it be better 
to see Air. Perker to-night, so that we may be there, the first thing in the morning ? ” 

“ Why,” responded Lowten, after a little consideration, “if it was in anybody 
eise’s case, Perker wouldn’t be best pleased at my going up to his house ; but as 
it’s Air. Pickwick’s, I think I may venture to take a cab and charge it to the office.” 
Deciding on this line of conduct, Air. Lowten took up his hat, and begging tho 


Mr, Perhcrs Private Residence, 


407 


as^embJed compan5 li) appoint a deputy chairman during his temporaiy absence, 
led the way to the neai est coach-stand. Summoning the cab of most promising 
appearance, he directed the driver to repair to Montague Place, Russell Square. 

Mr. Perker had had a dinner party that day, as was testified by the appearance 
of lights in the drawing-room windows, the sound of an improved grand piano, 
and an improvable cabinet voice issuing therefrom, and a rather overpowering 
smell of meat which pervaded the steps and entiy. In fact a couple of very good 
countr}' agencies happening to come up to town, at the same time, an agreeable 
little party had been got together to meet them : comprising Mr. Snicks the Life 
Office Secretary, Mr. Prosee the eminent counsel, three solicitors, one commis- 
sioner of bankrupts, a special pleader fi om the Temple, a small-eyed peremptory 
young gentleman, his pupil, who had written a lively book about the law of demises, 
with a vast quantity of marginal notes and references ; and several other eminent 
and distinguished personages. From this society, little Mr. Perker detached him- 
self, on his clerk being announced in a whisper ; and repairing to the dining-room, 
there found Mr. Lowten and Job Trotter looking very dim and shadowy by the 
light of a kitchen candle, which the gentleman who condescended to appear in 
plush shorts and cottons for a quarterly stipend, had, with a becoming contempt 
for the clerk and all things appertaining to “the office,” placed upon the table. 

“ Now, Lowten,” said little Mr. Perker, shutting the door, “ what ’s the matter ? 
No important letter come in a parcel, is there .?” 

“ No sir,” replied Lowten. “This is a messenger from Mr. Pickwick, sir.” 

“From Pickwick, eh.*^” said the little man, turning quicldy to Job. “ Well, 
what is it 

“ Dodson and Fogg have taken Mrs. Bardell in execution for her costs, sir,” 
said Job. 

“ No ! ” exclaimed Perker, putting his hands in his pockets, and reclining against 
the sideboard. 

“ Yes,” said Job. “ It seems they got a cognovit out of her, for the amount of 
’em, directly after the trial.” 

“ By Jove !” said Perker, taking both hands out of his pockets, and striking the 
knuckles of his right against the palm of his left, emphatically, “ those are the 
cleverest scamps I ever had anything to do with ! ” 

“ The sharpest practitioners / ever knew, sir,” observ'ed Lowten, 

“ Sharp ! ” echoed Perker. “ There ’s no knowing where to have them.” 

“ Very true, sir, there is not,” replied Lowten ; and then, both master and man 
pondered for a few seconds, with animated countenances, as if they were reflecting 
upon one of the most beautiful and ingenious discoveries that the intellect of man 
had ever made. When they had in some measure recovered from their trance of 
admiration. Job Trotter discharged himself of the rest of his commission. Perker 
nodded his head thoughtfully, and pulled out his watch. 

“ At ten precisely, I will be there,” said the little man. “ Sara is quite right. 
Tell him so. WiH you take a glass of wine, Lowten .?” 

“ No, thank you, sir.” 

“ You mean yes, I think,” said the little man, turning to the sideboard for a 
decanter and glasses. 

As Lowten did mean yes, he said no more on the subject, but inquh ed of Job, 
in an audible whisper, whether the portrait of Perker, which hung o]>posite the 
fire-place, wasn’t a wonderful likeness, to which. Job of course replied that it was. 
The wine being by this time poured out, Lowten drank to Mrs. Perker and the 
children, and Job to Perker. The gentleman in the plush shorts and cottons con- 
sidering it no part of his duty to show the people from the office out, cons’stently 
declined to answer the bell, and they showed themselves out. The attorney betooh 


4c8 


The Pickwick Club, 


himself to his drawing-room, the clerk to the Magpie and Stump, and Job t« 
Covent Gaiden Market to spend the night in a vegetable basket. 

Punctually at the appointed hour next morning, the good-humoured little attorney 
tapped at Mr. Pickwick’s door, which was opened with great alacrity by Sam 
Weller. 

“ Mr. Pevker, sir,” said Sam, announcing the visitor to Mr. Pickwick, who was 
sitting at the window in a thoughtful attitude. “Wery glad you’ve looked in 
accidentally, sir. I rather think the gov’nor wants to have a word and a half with 
you, sir.” 

Perker bestowed a look of intelligence on Sam, intimating that he understood 
lie was not to say he had been sent for : and beckoning him to approach, whispered 
briefly in his ear. 

“ You don’t mean that ’ere, sir ?” said Sam, starting back in excessive surprise. 

Perker nodded and smiled. 

Mr. Samuel Weller looked at the little lawj-er, then at Mr. Pickwick, then at 
the ceiling, then at Perker again ; grinned, laughed outright, and finally, catching 
up his hat from the carpet, without further explanation, disappeared. 

“What does this mean.?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker with 
astonishment. “ What has put Sam into this most extraordinary state .?” 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing,” replied Perker. “ Come, my dear sir, draw up your 
chair to the table. I have a good deal to say to you.” 

“ What papers are those inquired Mr. Pickwick, as the little man deposited 
on the table a small bundle of documents tied with red tape. 

“ The papers in Bardell and Pickwick,” replied Perker, undoing the knot with 
his teeth. 

Mr. Pickwick grated the legs of his chair against the ground ; and throwing 
himself into it, folded his hands and looked sternly — if Mr. Pickwick ever could 
look sternly — at his legal friend. 

“ You don’t like to hear the name of the cause ?” said the little man, still busying 
himself with the knot. 

“No, I do not indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Sorry for that,” resumed Perker, “ because it will fonn the subject of our con- 
versation.” 

“ I would rather that the subject should be never mentioned between us, Perker,” 
interposed Mr. Pickwick, hastily. 

“ Pooh, pooh, my dear sir,” said the little man, untying the bundle, and glancing 
eagerly at Mr. Pickwick out of the corners of his eyes. “ It must be mentioned. 
1 have come here on purpose. Now, are you ready to hear what I have to say, 
my dear sir .? No huny' ; if you are not, I can wait. I have this morning’s paper 
here. Your time shall be mine. There!” Hereupon, the little man threw one 
leg over the other, and made a show of beginning to read with gieat composure 
and application. 

“ Well, well,” said Mr. Pickwick, with a sigh, but softening into a smile at the 
same time. “ Say what you have to say ; it ’s the old stoiy I suppose ? ” 

“With a difference, my dear sir; with a difference,” rejoined Perker, deliber- 
ately folding up the paper and putting it into his pocket again. “Mrs. Baidell, 
the plaintiff in the action, is within these walls, sir.” 

“ I know it,” was Mr. Pickwick’s reply. 

“Very good,” retorted Perker. “ And you know how she comes here, I sup- 
pose ; I mean on what grounds, and at whose suit ?” 

“ Yes ; at least I have heard Sam’s account of the matter,” said Mr. Pickwick, 
>dth affected carelessness. 

“Sam’s account of the matter,” replied Perker, “is, I will venture to say, a 


A IVay Out, 


409 


perfectly correct one. Well now, my dear sir, the first question I have to ask, is, 
whether this woman is to remain here ?” 

“ To remain here ! ” echoed Mr. Pickwick. 

“ To remain here, my dear sir,” rejoined Perker, leaning back in his chair ana 
looking steadily at his client. 

“How can you ask me.?” said that gentleman. “It rests with Dodson and 
Fogg ; you know that, very well.” 

“ I know nothing of the kind,” retorted Perker, firmly. “ It does not rest with 
Dodson and Fogg; you know the men, my dear sir, as well as I do. It rests 
solely, wholly, and entirely with you.” 

“With me!” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, rising nervously from his chair, and 
reseating himself directly afterwards. 

The little man gave a double knock on the lid of his snuff-box, opened it, took 
a great pinch, shut it up again, and repeated the words, “ With you.” 

“ I say, my dear sir,” resumed the little man, who seemed to gather confidence 
from the snuff ; “I say, that her speedy liberation or perpetual imprisonment rests 
with you, and with you alone. Hear me out, my dear sir, if you please, and do 
not be so very energetic, for it will only put you into a perspiration and do no good 
whatever. I say,” continued Perker, checking off each position on a difi'erent 
finger, as he laid it down ; “I say that nobody but you can rescue her from this 
den of wretchedness ; and that you can only do that, by paying the costs of this 
suit — both of plaintiff and defendant — into the hands of these Freeman’s Court 
sharks. Now pray be quiet, my dear sir.” 

Mr. Pickwick, whose face had been undergoing most surprising changes during 
this speech, and who was evidently on the verge of a strong burst of indignation, 
calmed his wrath as well as he could. Perker, strengthening his argumentative 
powers with another pinch of snuff, proceeded. 

“ I have seen the woman, this morning. By paying the costs, you can obtain 
a full release and discharge from the damages; and further — this I know is a far 
greater object of consideration with you, my dear sir — a voluntary statement, under 
her hand, in the form of a letter to me, that this business was, from the ver\' first, 
fomented, and encouraged, and brought about, by these men, Dodson and Fogg ; 
that she deeply regrets ever having been the instrument of annoyance or injury to 
you ; and that she entreats me to intercede with you, and implore your pardon.” 

“If I pay her costs for her,” said Mr. Pickwick, indignantly. “ A valuable 
document, indeed I ” 

“No ‘ if' in the case my dear sir,” said Perker, triumphantly. “ There is the 
very letter I speak of. Brought to my office by another woman at nine o’clock 
this morning, before I had set foot in this place, or held any communication with 
Mrs. Bardell, upon my honour.” Selecting the letter from the bundle, the little 
lawyer laid it at Mr. Pickwick’s elbow, and took snuff for two consecutive minutes, 
without winking. 

“ Is this all you have to say to me ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, mildly. 

“ Not quite,” replied Perker. “ I cannot undertake to say, at this moment, 
whether the wording of the cognovit, the nature of the ostensible consideration, 
and the proof we can get together about the whole conduct of the suit, will be 
sufficient to justify an indictment for conspiracy. I fear not, my dear sir ; they 
are too clever for that, I doubt. I do mean to say, however, that the whole facts, ' 
taken together, will be sufficient to justify you, in the minds of all reasonable men 
And now, my dear sir, I put it to you. This one hundred and fifty pounds, or 
whatever it may be — take it in round numbers — is nothing to you. A jury has 
decided against you ; well, their verdict is wi'ong, but still they decided as they 
thought right, and.it is against you. You have now an opportunity, on easy 


The Pickwick Clul\ 


(|<o 

terms, of placing ^^ourself in a mucli higher position than you over coul^l, by 
remaining here ; which would only be imputed, by people who didn’t know you, 
to sheer dogged, wrongheaded, brutal obstinacy : nothing else, my dear sir, 
believe me. Can you hesitate to avail yourself of it, when it restores you to your 
friends, your old pursuits, your health and amusements ; when it liberates your 
faithful and attached servant, whom you otherwise doom to imprisonment for the 
whole of your life ; and above all, when it enables you to take the very magnani- 
mous revenge — which I know, my dear sir, is one after your own hea? t — of releas- 
ing this woman from a scene of misery and debauchery, to which no man should 
ever be consigned, if I had my will, but the infliction of which on any woman, is 
even more frightflil and barbarous. Now I ask you, my dear sir, not only as 
your legal adviser, but as your very true friend, will you let slip the occasion of 
attaining all these objects, and doing all this good, for the paltry consideration of 
a few pounds finding their way into the pockets of a couple of rascals, to whom 
it makes no manner of difference, except that the more they gain, the more they’ll 
seek, and so the sooner be led into some piece of knavery that must end in a crash } 
I have put these considerations to you, my dear sir, very feebly and imperfectly, 
but I ask you to think of them. Turn them over in your mind as long as you please 
I wait here most patiently for your answer.” 

Before Mr. Pickwick could reply ; before Mr. Perker had taken one twentieth 
part of the snuff with which so unusually long an address imperatively required to 
be followed up ; there was a low murmuring of voices outside, and then a hesita- 
ting knock at the door. 

“ Dear, dear,” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who had been evidently roused bv his 
friend’s appeal ; “ what an annoyance that door is ! Who is that 

“ Me, sir,” replied Sam Weller, putting in his head. 

“I can’t speak to you just now, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I am engaged, 
at this moment, Sam.” 

“ Beg your pardon, sir,” rejoined Mr. Weller. “ But here’s a lady here, sir, 
as says she’s somethin’ wery partickler to disclose.” 

“ I can’t see any lady,” replied Mr. Pickwick, whose mind was filled with 
visions of Mrs. Bardell. 

“ I vouldn’t make too sure o’ that, sir,” urged Mr. Weller, shaking his head. 
“If you know’d who was near, sir, I rayther think you’d change your note. As 
the hawk remarked to himself with a cheerful laugh, ven he heerd the robin red- 
breast a singin’ round the corner.” 

“ Who is it inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Will you see her, sir asked Mr. Weller, holding the door in his hand as if 
he had some curious live animal on the other side. 

“ I suppose I must,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking at Perker. 

“ Well then, all in to begin!” cried Sam. “Sound the gong, draw up the 
curtain, and enter the tAvo con-spiraytors.” 

As Sam Weller spoke, he threw the door open, and there rushed tumultu- 
ously into the room, Mr. Nathaniel Winkle: leading after him by the hand, the 
identical young lady who at Dingley Dell had worn the boots with the fur round 
the tops, and who, now a very pleasing compound of blushes and confusion and 
lilac silk and a smart bonnet and a rich lace veil, looked prettier than ever. 

“ Miss Arabella Allen ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, rising from his chair. 

“No,” replied Mr. Winkle, dropping on his knees, “ Mrs. Winkle. Pardon, 
«ay dear friend, pardon } ” 

Mr. Pickwick could scarcely believe the evidence of his senses, and per- 
haps would not have done so, but for the conoborative testimony afforded by the 
smiling countenance of Perker, and the bodily presence, in the background, o< 


Explanations^ 4,1 1 

Sam and the pretty housemaid ; who appeared to contemplate the proceedings 
with the liveliest satisfaction. 

“ Oh, ISIr. Pickwick ! ” said Arabella, in a low voice, as if alarmed at the silence. 
“ Can you forgive my imprudence ?” 

Mr. Pickwick returned no verbal response to this appeal ; but he took off his 
spectacles in great haste, and seizing both the young lady’s hands in his, kissed 
her a gi-eat number of times— perhaps a greater number than was absolutely neces- 
sary — and then, still retaining one of her hands, told Mr. Winkle he was an auda- 
cious young dog, and bade him get up. This, Mr. Winkle, who had been for 
some seconds scratching his nose with the brim of his hat, in a penitent manner, 
did ; whereupon Mr. Pickwick slapped him on the back several times, and then 
shook hands heartily with Perker, who, not to be behind-hand in the compliments 
of the occasion, saluted both the bride and the pretty housemaid with right good 
will, and, having wrung Mr. Winkle’s hand most cordially, wound up his demon- 
strations of joy by taking snuff enough to set any half dozen men with ordinarily 
constnictod noses, a sneezing for life. 

“ Why, my dear girl,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ how has all this come about } 
Come ! Sit down, and let me hear it all. How well she looks, doesn’t she Perker ?” 
added Mr. Pickwick, surveying Arabella’s lace with a look of as much pride and 
exultation, as if she had been his daughter. 

“ Delightful, my dear sir,” replied the little man. “ If I were not a married 
man myself, I should be disposed to envy you, you dog.” Thus expressing him- 
self, the little lawyer gave Mr. Winkle a poke in the chest, which that gentleman 
reciprocated ; after which they both laughed very loudly, but not so loudly as Mr. 
Samuel Weller. Who had just relieved his feelings by kissing the pretty house- 
maid, under cover of the cupboard-door. 

“ I can never be grateful enough to you, Sam, I am sure,” said Arabella, with 
the sweetest smile imaginable. “ I shall not forget your exertions in the garden 
at Clifton.” 

“ Don’t say nothin’ wotever about it, ma’m,” replied Sam. “ I only assisted 
natur’, ma’m ; as the doctor said to the boy’s mother, arter he ’d bled him to 
death.” 

“ Mary, my dear, sit down,” said "Mr. Pickwick, cutting short these compli- 
ments. “ Ncrw then ; how long have you been married, eh 

Arabella looked bashfully at her lord and master, who replied, “ Only three 
days.” 

“Only three days, eh said Mr. Pickwick. “Why, what have you been 
doing these three months ?” 

“Ah, to be sure!” interposed Perker; “come! Account for this idleness. 
You see Pickwick’s only astonishment is, that it wasn’t all over, months ago.” 

“ Why the fact is,” replied Mr. Winkle, looking at his blushing young wife, 
“ that I could not persuade Bella to run away, for a long time. And when I had 
persuaded her, it was a long time more, before we could find an opportunity. 
Mary had to give a month’s warning, too, before she could leave her place next 
door, and we couldn’t possibly have done it without her assistance.” 

“ Upon my word,” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, who by this time had resumed his 
spectacles, and was looking from Arabella to Winkle, and from Winkle to Ara- 
bella, with as much delight depicted in his countenance as warm-heartedness and 
kindly feeling can communicate to the human face : “ upon my word ! you seem 
to have been very systematic in your prdceedings. And is your brother ac- 
quainted with all this, my dear 

“ Oh, no, no,” replied Arabella, changing colour. “ Dear Mr. Pickwick, h; 
must only Imow it from you — from your lips alone. He is so viol«;nt, so preju* 


The Pickwick Club. 


diced, and has been so — so anxious in behalf of his friend, Mr. Sawyer,” added 
Arabella, looking down, “ that I fear the consequences dreadfully.” 

“ Ah, to be sure,” said Perker gravely. “ You must take this matter in hand 
for them, my dear sir. These young men will respect you, when they would listen 
to nobody else. You must prevent mischief, my dear sir. Hot blood, hot blood.” 
And the little man took a warning pinch, and shook his head doubtfully. 

“ You forget, my love,” said Mr. Pickwick, gently, “ you forget that I am a 
piisoner.” 

“ No, indeed I do not, my dear sir,” replied Arabella. “ I never have forgotten 
it. I have never ceased to think how great your sufferings must have been in this 
shocking place. But I hoped that what no consideration for yourself would induce 
you to do, a regard to our happiness, might. If my brother hears of this, first, 
from you, I feel certain we shall be reconciled. He is my only relation in the 
world, Mr. Pickwick, and unless you plead for me, I fear I have lost even him. I 
have done wrong, very, very wrong, I know.” Here poor Arabella hid her face 
in her handkerchief, and wept bitterly. 

Mr. Pickwick’s nature was a good deal worked upon, by these same tears ; but 
when Mrs. Winkle, drying her eyes, took to coaxing and entreating in the sweetest 
tones of a very sweet voice, he became particularly restless, and evidently unde- 
cided how to act. As was evinced by sundry nervous rubbings of his spectacle- 
glasses, nose, tights, head, and gaiters. 

Taking advantage of these symptoms of indecision, Mr. Perker (to whom, it 
appeared, the young couple had driven straight that moniing) urged with legal 
point and shrewdness that Mr. Winkle, senior, was still unacquainted with the 
important rise in life’s flight of steps which his son had taken ; that the future ex- 
pectations of the said son depended entirely upon the said Winkle, senior, conti- 
nuing to regard him with undiminished feelings of affection and attachment, which 
it was very unlikely he would, if this gi-eat event were long kept a secret from 
him ; that Mr. Pickweick, repairing to Bristol to seek Mr. Allen, might, with equal 
reason, repair to Birmingham to seek Mr. Winkle, senior ; lastly, that Mr. Win- 
kle, senior, had good right and title to consider Mr. Pickwick as in some degree 
the guardian and adviser of his son, and that it consequently behoved that gentle- 
man, and was indeed due to his personal character, to acquaint the aforesaid Win- 
kle, senior, personally, and by word of mouth, with the whole circumstances of 
the case, and with the share he had taken in the transaction. 

Mr. Tupman and Mr. Snodgrass arrived, most opportunely, in this stage of the 
pleadings, and as it was nec^sary to explain to them all that had occurred, together 
with the various reasons pro and con, the whole of the arguments were gone over 
again, after w'hich everybody urged every argument in his own way, and at his 
own length. And, at last, Mr. Pickwick, fairly argued and remonstrated out of 
all his resolutions, and being in imminent danger of being argued and remon- 
strated out of his wits, caught Arabella in his arms, and declaring that she was a 
very amiable creature, and that he didn’t know how it was, but he had always 
been ven fond of her from the first, said he could never find it in his heart to 
.stand in the way of young people’s happiness, and they might do with him as they 
pleased. 

Air. Weller’s first act, on hearing this concession, was to despatch Job Trotter 
to the illustrious Mr. Pell, with an authority to deliver to the bearer the formal 
dischai ge which his prudent parent had had the foresight to leave in the hands of 
that learned gentleman, in case it should be, at any time, required on an emer- 
gency; his next proceeding was, to invest his whole stock of ready money, in the 
purchase of five-and-twenty gallons of mild porter : which he himself dispensed 
oo the racket giound to eveiybody who would partake of it ; this done, he hurra’d 


'4duni to the Fleet, 


413 

in divers parts of the building until he lost his voice, and then quietly relapsed 
into his usual collected and philosophical condition. 

At three o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Pickwick took a last look at his little 
room, and made his way, as well as he could, through the throng of debtors who 
pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached che lodge 
steps. He tunied here, to look about him, and his eye lightened as he did so. 
In all the crowd of wan, emaciated faces, he saw not one which was not the hap* 
pier for his sympathy and charity. 

“ Perker,” said Mr. Pickwick, beckoning one young man towards him, “ this is 
Mr. Jingle, whom I spoke to you about.” 

“ Very good, my dear sir,” replied Perker, looking hard at Jingle. “ You will 
see me again, young man, to-moiTow. I hope you may live to remember and feel 
deeply, what I shall have to communicate, sir.” 

Jingle bowed respectfully, trembled very much as he took Mr. Pickwick’s prof- 
fered hand, and withdrew. 

“ Job you know, I think said Mr. Pickwick, presenting that gentleman. 

“I know the rascal,” replied Perker, good-humouredly. “See after your 
friend, and be in the way to-morrow at one. Do you hear ? Now, is there 
anything more ?” 

“ Nothing,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick. “ You have delivered the little parcel I 
gave you for your old landlord, Sam .?” 

“ I have, sir,” replied Sam. “ He bust out a cryin’, sir, and said you wos 
wery gen’rous and thoughtful, and he only wished you could have him innokilated 
for a gallopin’ consumption, for his old friend as had lived here so long, wos 
dead, and he’d noweres to look for another.” 

“ Poor fellow, poor fellow ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. “ God bless you, my 
friends ! ” 

As Mr. Pickwick uttered this adieu, the crowd raised a loud shout. Many 
among them were pressing forward to shake him by the hand, again, when he 
drew his arm through Perker’s, and hurried from the prison : far more sad 
and melancholy, for the moment, that when he had first entered it. Alas ! how 
many sad and unhappy beings had he left behind ! 

A happy evening was that, for, at least, one party in the George and Vulture ; 
and light and cheerful were two of the hearts that emerged from its hospitable 
door next morning. The owners thereof were Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller, 
the fonner of whom was speedily deposited inside a comfortable post coach, with 
a little dickey behind, in w-hich the latter mounted with great agility. 

“ Sir,” called out Mr. Weller to his master. 

“ Well, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick, thrusting his head out of the window. 

“ I wish them horses had been three months and better in the Fleet, sir.” 

“Why, Sam inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Wy, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Weller, rubbing his hands, “ how they would go if 
the} had been I 


4T4 


The Pickwick Club. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

RELATES HOW MR. PICKWICK, WITH THE ASSISTANCE OF SAMUEL WELLER, 
ESSAYED TO SOFTEN THE HEART OF MR. BENJAMIN ALLEN, AND TO 
MOLLIFY THE WRATH OF MR. ROBERT SAWYER. 

Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sa-vn'cr sat together in the little surgery behind 
the shop, discussing minced veal and future prospects, when the discourse, not 
unnaturally, turned upon the practice acquired by Bob the aforesaid, and his 
present chances of deriving a competent independence from the honourable pro- 
fession to which he had devoted himself. 

“ — Which, I think,” observed Mr. Bob Sawyer, pursuing the thread of the 
subject, “ which, I think, Ben, are rather dubious.” 

“ What’s rather dubious ?” inquired Mr. Ben Allen, at the same time sharpen- 
ing his intellects with a draught of beer. “ What’s dubious 

“ Why, the chances,” responded Mr. Bob Sa'w'j'er. 

“ I forgot,” said Mr. Ben Allen. “ The beer has reminded me that I forgot. 
Bob — yes ; they are dubious.” 

“ It's wonderful how the poor people patronise me,” said Mr. Bob Sawy^er, 
refle-ctively. “ They knock me up, at all hours of the night ; they take medicine 
to an extent Mdiich I should have conceived impossible ; they put on blisters and 
leeches with a perseverance worthy of a better cause ; they make additions to 
their families, in a manner w’hich is quite awful. Six of those last-named little 
promissory' notes, all due on the same day, Ben, and all intrusted to me !” 

“It’s very gratifying, isn’t it?” said Mr. Ben AUen, holding his plate for 
some more minced veal. 

“Oh, very,” replied Bob; “ only not quite so much so, as the confidence of 
patients with a shilling or two to spare, would be. This business was capitally 
described in the advertisement, Ben. It is a practice, a very extensive practice — 
and that’s all.” 

“ Bob,” said hir. Ben Allen, laydng down his knife and fork, and fixing his eyes 
on the visage of his friend : “ Bob, I’ll tell you what it is.” 

“ What is it ?” inquired Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“ You must make yourself, with as little delay as possible, master of Arabella’s 
one thousand pounds.” 

“ Three per cent, consolidated Bank annuities, now standing in her name 
in the book or books of the Governor and Company of the Bank of England,” 
added Bob Sawyer, in legal phraseology. 

“Exactly so,” said Ben. “She has it when she comes of age, or marries. 
She wants a year of coming of age, and if you plucked up a spirit she needn’t 
want a month of being married.” 

“ She’s a very charming and delightful creature,” quoth Mr. Robert Sawyer, in 
reply “ and has only one fault that I know of, Ben. It happens, unfortunately, 
that that single blemish is a want of taste. She don’t like me.” 

“ It’s my opinion that she don’t know what she does like,” said Mr. Ben Allen, 
contemptuously. 

“ Perhaps not,” remarked Mr. Bob Sawyer. “ But it’s my opinion that she 
does know what she doesn’t like, and that’s of more importance.” 

“ I wish,” said Mr. Ben Allen, setting his teeth together, and speaking more 
like a savage warrior who fed on raw wolf’s flesh which he carved with his 
fingers, than a peaceable young gentleman who ate minced veal with a knife and 
fork, “ I wish I knew whether any rascal really has been tampering wth her. 


Arrival of a Fly. 41 ^ 

and attempting to engage her affections. I think I should assassinate him, 
Bob.” 

“ I’d put a bullet in him, if I found him out,” said Mr. Sawyer, stopping in 
the course of a long draught of beer, and looking malignantly ou-t of the porter pot, 
“ If that didn’t do his business, I’d extract it afterwards, and kill him that way.” 

Idr. Benjamin Allen gazed abstractedly on his friend for some minutes in 
silence, and then said : 

“You have never proposed to her, point-blank. Bob 

“No. Because I saw it would be of no use,” replied Mr. Robert Saw}'er. 

“You shall do it, before you are twenty-four hours older,” retorted Ben, with 
desperate calmness. “ She shall have you, or I’ll know the reason why. I’ll 
exert my authority.” 

“ Well,” said Air. Bob Sawyer, “we shall see.” 

“ We see, my friend,” replied Air. Ben Allen, fiercely. He paused for a 

few seconds, and ad<led in a voice broken by emotion, “ You have loved her from 
a child, my friend. You loved her when we were boys at school together, and, 
even then, she was wayward, and slighted j'our young feelings. Do you recollect, 
with all the eagerness of a child’s love, one day pressing upon her acceptance, 
two small caraway-seed biscuits and one sweet apple, neatly folded into a circular 
parcel with the leaf of a copybook ?” 

“ I do,” rq-)lied Bob Sawyer. 

“ She slighted that, I think said Ben Allen. 

“ She did,” rejoined Bob. “ She said I had kept the parcel so long in the 
pockets of my corduroys, that the apple was unpleasantly warm.” 

“ I remember” said Air. Allen, gloomily. “ Upon which we ate it ourselves, 
in alternate bites.” 

Bob Sawyer intimated his recollection of the circumstance last alluded to, by a 
melancholy frown ; and the two friends remained for some time absorbed, each 
in his own meditations. 

While these observ'ations were being exchanged between Air. Bob Sawyer and 
Air. Benjamin Allen ; and while the boy in the grey livery, marvelling at the un- 
wonted prolongation of the dinner, cast an anxious look, from time to time, towards 
the glass door, distracted by inward misgivings regarding the amount of minced 
veal which would be ultimately reserved for his individual cravings ; there rolled 
soberly on through the streets of Bristol, a private fly, painted of a sad green 
colour, drawn by a chubby sort of brown horse, and driven by a surly-Iooking man 
with his legs dVessed like the legs of a groom, and his body attired in the coat 
of a coachman. Such appearances are common to many vehicles belonging to, 
and maintained by, old ladies of economic habits ; and in this vehicle, sat an old 
lady who was its mistress and proprietor. 

“ Alartin ! ” said the old lady, calling to the surly man, out of the front window. 

“ Well said the surly man, touching his hat to the old lady. 

“ Air. Sawyer’s,” said the old lady. 

“ I was going there,” said the surly man. 

Tire old lady nodded the satisfaction which this proof of the surly man’s fore- 
sight imparted to her feelings ; and the surly man giving a smart lash to the 
chubby horse, they all repaired to Air. Bob Sawyer’s together. 

“Alartin!” said the old lady, when tire fly stopped at the door of Air. Robert 
Sawyer late Nockemorf. 

“Well.?” said Alartin. 

“Ask the lad to step out, and mind the horse.” 

“ I ’m going to mind the horse myself,” said Martin, laying his Whip on the 
mof of the fly. 


4i0 


The Pickivlck Club. 


I can’t permit it, on any account,” said the old lady ; “ your testimony will be 
very important, and I must take you into the house with me. You must not stii 
from my side during the whole interview. Do you hear ?” 

“ I hear,” replied Martin. 

“ Well ; what are you stopping for ?” 

“ Nothing,” replied Martin. So saying, the surly man leisurely descended from 
the wheel, on which he had been poising himself on the tops of the toes of his 
right foot, and having summoned the boy in the grey livery opened the coach- 
door, flung down the steps, and thrusting in a hand enveloped in a dark wash- 
leather glove, pulled out the old lady with as much unconcern in his manner as if 
she were a bandbox. 

“ Dear me ! ” exclaimed the old lady. “I am so fluiried, now I have got here, 
Martin, that I ’m all in a tremble.” 

Mr. Martin coughed behind the dark wash-leather glove, but expressed no sym- 
pathy ; so the old lady, composing herself, trotted up Mr. Bob Sawyer’s steps, and 
Mr. IVIartin followed. Immediately on the old lady’s entering the shop, Mr. 
Benjamin Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been putting the spirits and water out 
of sight, and upsetting nauseous drugs to take off the smell of the tobacco-smoke, 
issued hastily forth in a transport of pleasure and affection. 

“ My dear aunt,” exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, “ how kind of you to look in upon 
us ! Mr. Saw^'er, aunt ; my friend Mr. Bob Sawyer whom I have spoken to you 
about, regarding — you know, aunt.” And here *Mr. Ben Allen, who was not at 
the moment extraordinarily sober, added the word “ Arabella,” in what was meant 
to be a whisper, but which was an especially audible and distinct tone of speech, 
which nobody could avoid hearing, if anybody were so disposed. 

“ My dear Benjamin,” said the old lady, struggling with a great shortness of 
breath, and trembling from head to foot : “ don’t be alarmed, my dear, but I think 
I had better speak to Mr. Sawyer, alone, for a moment. Only for one moment.” 

“ Bob,” said Mr. Ben Allen, “ will you take my aunt into the surgery 

“ Certainly,” responded Bob, in a most professional voice. “Step this way, 
my dear ma’am. Don’t be frightened ma’am. We shall be able to set you to 
rights in a very short time, I have no doubt, ma’am. Here, my dear ma’am. 
Now then ! ” With this, Mr. Bob Sawyer having handed the old lady to a chair, 
shut the door, drew another chair close to her, and waited to hear detailed the 
symptoms of some disorder from which he saw in perspective a long train of 
profits and advantages. 

The first thing the old lady did, was to shake her head a great many times, and 
begin to ciy. 

“ Nerv^ous,” said Bob Sawyer complacently. “ Camphor-julep and water three 
times a-day, and composing draught at night.” 

“ I don’t know how to begin, Mr. Sawyer,” said the old lady. “ It is so very 
painful and distressing.” 

“ You need not begin, ma’am,” rejoined Mr. Bob Sawyer. “ I can anticipate 
all you would say. The head is in fault.” 

“ I should be very sorry to think it was the heart,” said the old lady, with a 
slight groan. 

“ Not the slightest danger of that, ma’am,” replied Bob Sawyer. “ The stomach 
is the primary cause.” 

“ Mr. Sawyer ! ” exclaimed the old lady, starting. 

“Not the least doubt of it, ma’am,” rejoined Bob, looking wondrous wise, 
“ Medicine, in time, my dear ma’am, would have prevented it aU.” 

^ “Mr. Sawyer,” said the old lady, more flurried than before, “ this conduct is 
either great impertinence tc one in my situation, sir, or it arises from your not 


An Elopement announced. 


understanding^ the object of my visit. If it had been in the power of medicine, or 
any foresight I could have used, to prevent what has occurred, I should certainly 
have done so. I had better see my nephew at once,” said the old lady, twirling 
her reticule indignantly, and rising as she spoke. 

“ Stop a moment, nia’am,” said Bob Sawyer; “I’m afraid I have not under- 
stood you. What is the matter, ma’am 

“ My niece, Mr. Sawyer,” said the old lady : “ your friend’s sister.” 

“ Yes, ma’am,” said Bob, all impatience ; for the old lady, although much agi- 
tated, spoke with the most tantalising dehberation, as old ladies often do. “Yes, 
ma’am.” 

“ Left my home, Mr. Saw^^er, three days ago, on a pretended visit to my sister, 
another aunt of hers, who keeps the large boarding-school just beyond the third 
mile-stone where there is a very large laburnum tree and an oak gate,” said the 
old lady, stopping in this place to dry her eyes. 

“ Oh, devil take the laburnum tree ! ma’am,” said Bob, quite forgetting his pro- 
fessional dignity in his anxiety. “ Get on a little faster ; put a little more steam 
on, ma’am, pray.” 

“ This morning,” said the old lady, slowly, “ this morning, she ” 

“ She came back, ma’am, I suppose,” said Bob, with great animation. “Did 
she come back ?” 

“No, she did not ; she wrote,” replied the old lady. 

“ What did she say inquired Bob, eagerly. 

“She said, Mr. Sawyer,” replied the old lady— “ and it is this, I want you to 
prepare Benjamin’s mind for, gently and by degrees ; she said that she was — I 
nave got the letter in my pocket, Mr. Sawyer, but my glasses are in the carriage, 
and I should only waste your time if I attempted to point out the passage to you, 
without them ; she said, in short, Mr. Sawyer, that she was married.” 

“ What ! ” said, or rather shouted, Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“ Married,” repeated the old lady. 

Mr. Bob Sawyer stopped to hear no more ; but darting from the surgery into 
the outer shop, cried in a stentorian voice, “ Ben, my boy, sb^''’s bolted !” 

Mr. Ben Allen, who had been slumbering behind the counter, with his head 
half a foot or so below his knees, no sooner heard this appalling communication, 
than he made a precipitate rush at Mr. Martin, and, twisting his hand in the neck- 
cloth of that taciturn servitor, expressed an intention of choking him where he 
stood. This intention, with a promptitude often the effect of desperation, he at 
once commenced carrying into execution, with much vigour and surgical skill. 

Mr. Martin, who was a man of few words and possessed but little power of 
eloquence or persuasion, submitted to this operation with a very calm and agree- 
able expression of countenance, for some seconds ; finding, however, that it 
threatened speedily to lead to a result which would place it beyond his power to 
claim any wages, board or otherwise, in all time to come, he muttered an inarti- 
culate remonstrance and felled Mr. Benjamin Allen to the ground. As that 
gentleman had his hands entangled in his cravat, he had no alternative but to 
follow him to the floor. There they both lay struggling, when the shop door 
opened, and the party was increased by the arrival of two most unexpected 
visitors ; to wit, Mr. Pickwick, and Mr. Samuel Weller. 

The imp -ession at once produced on Mr. Weller’s mind by what he saw, was, 
that Mr. Martin was hired by the establishment of Sawyer late Nockemorf, to 
take strong medicine, or to go into fits and be experimentalised upon, or to 
swallow poison now and then with the view of testing the efficacy of some new 
antidotes, or to do something or other to promote the great science of medicine, 
and gratify the ardent spirit of inquiry burning in the bosoms of its two young 

£ £ 


4i8 


The Pickwick Club. 


professors. So, without presuming to interfere, Sam stood perfectly still, and 
looked on, as if he were mightily interested in the result of the then pending 
experiment. Not so, Mr. Pickwick. He at once threw himself on the astonished 
combatants, with his accustomed energy, and loudly called upon the by-standers 
to interpose. 

This roused Mr. Bob Sawyer, who had been hitherto quite paralysed by the 
frenzy of his companion. With that gentleman’s assistance, JSIr. Pickwick 
raised Ben Allen to his feet. Mr. Martin finding himself alone on the floor, got 
up, ani looked about him. 

‘•Mr. Allen,” said Mr. Pickwick, “what is the matter, sir?” 

“Never mind, sir !” replied Mr. Allen, with haughty defiance. 

“What is it?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, looking at Bob Saw}-er. “Is he 
imwell ?” 

Before Bob could reply, Mr. Ben Allen seized Mr. Pickwick by the hand, and 
munnured, in soirowful accents, “ My sister, my dear sir; my sister.” 

“ Oh, is that all !” said Mr. Pickwick. “ We shall easily arrange that matter, 
I hope. Your sister is safe and well, and I am here, my dear sir, to ” 

“ Sorry to do anythin’ as may cause an intemiption to such wery pleasant pro* 
ceedin’s, as the king said wen he dissolved the parliament,” inteiposed Mr. 
Weller, who had been peeping through the glass door; “but there’s another 
experiment here, sir. Here’s a wenerable old lady a lyin’ g:i the carpet waitin’ 
for dissection, or galwinism, or some other rewivin’ and scientific inwention.” 

“ I forgot,” exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen. “ It is my aunt.” 

“ Dear me !” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Poor lady ! Gently Sam, gently.” 

“ Strange sitivation for one o’ the family,” observed Sam Weller, hoisting the 
aunt into a chair. “Now, depitty Sawbones, bring out the wollatilly !” 

The latter observation was addressed to the boy in grey, who, having handed 
over the fly to the care of the street-keeper, had come back to see what all the 
noise was about. Between the boy in grey, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Ben- 
jamin Allen (who having frightened his aunt into a fainting fit, was affectionately 
solicitous for her recovery) the old lady was, at length, restored to consciousness , 
then Mr. Ben Allen, turning with a puzzled countenance to Mr. Pickwick, asked 
him what he was about to say, when he had been so alarmingly inteniipted. 

“We are all friends here, I presume ?” said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his voice, 
and looking towards the man of few words with the surly countenance, who drove 
the fly with the chubby horse. 

This reminded Mr. Bob Sa^v}’er that the boy in grey was looking on, with eyes 
wide open, and gieedy ears. The incipient chemist having been lifted up by his 
coat collar, and dropped outside the door. Bob Sa\vyer assm ed Mr. Pickwick 
that he might speak without reserve. 

“Your sister, my dear sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, turning to Benjamin Allen, “ is 
in London ; well and happy.” 

“ Her happiness is no object to me, sir,” said Mr. Benjamin Allen, with a 
flourish of the hand. 

“Her husband is an object to me, sir,” said Bob Sawyer. “ He shall be an 
object to me, sir, at twelve paces, and a very pretty object I’ll make of him, sir — 
a mean-spirited scoundrel!” This, as it stood, was a very pretty denunciation, 
srnd magnanimous withal ; but Mr. Bob Sawyer rather weakened its efiect, by 
winding up with some general observations concerning the punching of heads 
and knocking out of eyes, which were commonplace by comparison. 

“Stay, sir,” said "Mr, Piclnvick ; “before you apply those epithets to the 
gentleman in question, consider, dispassionately, the extent of his fault, and 
above all remember that he is a friend of mine.” 


IdentiRcation. 


4 ^ 

“ Whit !” said Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“ His name ! ” crit^d Ben Allen. “ His name ! ” 

“ Mr. Nathaniel Winkle,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. Benjamin Allen deliberately crushed his spectacles beneath the heel ol 
his boot, and having picked up the pieces, and put them into three separate 
pockets, folded his arms, bit his lips, and looked in a threatening manner at the 
bland features of Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Then it’s you, is it, sir, who have encouraged and brought about this match ?” 
inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen at length. 

“ And it’s this gentleman’s seiwant, I suppose,” interrupted the old lady, 
“ wdio has been skulking about my house, and endeavouring to enti'ap my 
servants to conspire against their mistress. Martin ! ” 

“ Well ? ” said the surly man, coming forward. 

“ Is that the young man you saw in the lane, whom you told me about, this 
morning ?” 

Mr. Martin, who, as it has already appeared, was a man of few words, looked 
at Sam Weller, nodded his head, and growled forth, “That’s the man!” Mr. 
Weller, who was never proud, gave a smile of friendly recognition as his eyes 
encountered those of the surly groom, and admitted, in courteous terms, that he 
had “ knowed him afore.” 

“And this is the faithful creature,” exclaimed Mr. Ben Allen, “ whom I had 
nearly suffocated I Mr. Pickwick, how dare you allow your fellow to be employed 
in the abduction of my sister } I demand that you explain this matter, sir.” 

“Explain it, sir!” cried Bob Sawyer, fiercely. 

“ It’s a conspiracy,” said Ben Allen. 

“A regular plant,” added Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“ A disgraceful imposition,” observed the old lady. 

“ Nothing but a do,” remarked Martin. 

“ Pray hear me,” urged Mr. Pickwick, as Mr. Ben Allen fell into a chair that 
patients were bled in, and gave way to his pocket-handkerchief. “ I have ren- 
dered no assistance in this matter, beyond that of being present at one interview 
between the young people, which I could not prevent, and from which I con- 
ceived my presence would remove any slight colouring of impropriety that it 
might otherwise have had ; this is the whole share I have taken in the transaction, 
and I had no suspicion that an immediate marriage was even contemplated. 
Though, mind,” added Mr. Pickwick, hastily checking himself, “ mind, I do not 
say I should have prevented it, if I had known that it was intended.” 

“ You hear that, all of you ; you hear that said Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

I hope they do,” mildly observed Mr. Pickwick, looking round, “and,” 
added that gentleman : his colour mounting as he spoke : “I hope they hear this, 
sir, also. That from what has been stated to me, sir, I assert that you were by no 
means justified in attempting to force your sister’s inclinations as you did, and that 
you should rather have endeavoured by your kindness and forbearance to have 
supplied the place of other nearer relations whom she has never known, from a 
child. As regards my young friend, I must beg to add, that in every point of 
worldly advantage, he is, at least, on an equal footing with yourself, if not on a 
much better one, and that unless I hear this question discussed with becoming 
temper and moderation, I decline hearing any more said upon the subject.” 

“ I wish to make a wery few remarks in addition to wot has been put forard by 
the honorable gen’l’m’n as has jist give over,” said Mr. Weller, stepping forth, 
“ wich is this here : a indiwidual in company has called me a feller.” 

“That has nothing whatever to do with the matter, Sam,” interposed Mr 
Pickwick. “ Pray hold your tongue.” 


The Pickwick Club. 


4.20 


“ I ain’t a goin’ to say nothin’ on that ere pint, sir,” replied Sam, “but merely 
this here. P’raps that gen’l’m’n may think as there wos a priory ’tachment ; bm 
there wora’t nothin’ o’ the sort, for the young lady said, in the wery beginnin’ o’ 
the keepin’ company, that she couldn’t abide him. Nobody’s cut him out, and it 
’ud ha’ been jist the wery same for him if the young lady had never seen Mr. 
Vinkle. That’s wot I wished to say, sir, and I hope I ’ve now made that ’ere 
gen’l’m’n’s mind easy.” 

A short pause followed these consolatory remarks of Mr. Weller. Then Mr. Ben 
Allen rising from his chair, protested that he would never see Arabella’s face 
again : while Mr. Bob Sawyer, despite Sam’s flattering assurance, vowed dreadful 
vengeance on the happy bridegroom. 

But, just when matters were at their height, and threatening to remain so, Mr. 
Pickwick found a powerful assistant in the old lady, who, evidently much struck 
by the mode in which he had advocated her niece’s cause, ventured to approach 
Air. Benjamin Allen with a few comforting reflections, of which the chief were, 
that after all, perhaps, it was well it was no worse ; the least said the soonest 
mended and upon her word she did not know that it was so very bad after 
all ; what was over couldn’t be begun, and what couldn’t be cured must be 
enclured : with various other assurances of the like novel and strengthening 
description. To all of these. Air. Benjamin Allen replied that he meant no 
disrespect to his aunt, or anybody there, but if it were all the same to them, and 
they would allow him to have his own way, he would rather have the pleasure of 
hating his sister till death, and after it. 

At length, when this determination had been announced half a hundred times, 
the old lady suddenly bridling up and looking very majestic, wdshed to know what 
she had done that no respect was to be paid to her years or station, and that she 
should be obliged to beg and pray, in that way, of her own nephew, whom she 
remembered about five-and-twenty years before he was born, and whom she had 
known, personally, when he hadn’t a tooth in his head? To say nothing of her 
presence on the first occasion of his having his hair cut, and assistance at numerous 
other times and ceremonies during his babyhood, of sufficient importance to found 
a claim upon his affection, obedience, and sympathies, for ever. 

AVliile the good lady was bestowing this objurgation on Air. Ben Allen, Bob 
Saw}'er and Mr. Pickwick had retired in close conversation to the inner room, 
where Air. Sawyer was observed to apply himself several times to the mouth of a 
black bottle, under the influence of which, his features gradually assumed a cheer- 
ful and even jovial expression. And at last he emerged from the room, bottle in 
hand, and, remarking that he was very sorry to say he had been making a fool of 
himself, begged to propose the health and happiness of Air. and Airs. Winkle, 
whose felicity, so far from envying, he would be the first to congratulate them 
upon. Hearing this, Mr. Ben Allen suddenly arose from his chair, and, seizing 
the l)lack bottle, drank the toast so heartily, that, the liquor being strong, he 
became nearly as black in the face as the bottle. Finally, the black bottle went 
round till it was empty, and there was so much shaking of hands and inter- 
changing of compliments, that even the metal-visaged Mr. Alartin condescended 
to smile. 

“ And now,” said Bob Sawyer, rubbing his hands, “ we ’ll have a jolly night.” 

“I am Sony,” said Air. Pickwick, “that I must return to my inn. I have not 
been accustomed to fatigue lately, and my journey has tired me exceedingly.” 

“You’ll take some tea, Mr. Pickwick?” said tlie old lady, with irresistible 
sweetness. 

“ Thank )-ou, I would rather not,” replied that gentleman. The truth is, that 
the old lady’s e^ddently increasing admiration, was Mr. Pickwick’s principal 


Re- appearance of the One-e^jed Man. 42 i 

inducement for ^oing away. He thought of Mrs. Bardell ; and every glance ol 
the old lady’s eyes threw him into a cold perspiration. 

As Mr. Pickwick could by no means be prevailed upon to stay, it was arranged 
at once, on his own proposition, that Mr. Benjamin Allen should accompany him 
on his journey to the elder Mr. Winkle’s, and that the coach should be at the 
door, at nine o’clock next morning. He then took his leave, and, followed 
by Samuel Weller, repaired to the Bush. It is worthy of remark, that J^.Ir. 
Martin’s face was horribly convulsed as he shook hands with Sam at parting, and 
that he gave vent to a smile and an oath simultaneously : from which tokens it has 
been inferred by those who were best acquainted with that gentleman’s peculiari- 
ties, that he expressed himself much pleased with Mr. Weller’s society, and 
requested the honor of his further acquaintance. 

“ Shall I order a private room, sir?” inquired Sam, when they reached the 
Bush. 

“ Why, no, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick ; “as I dined in the coffee room, and 
shall go to bed soon, it is hardly worth while. See who there is in the travellers’ 
room, Sam.” 

Mr. Weller departed on his errand, and presently returned to say, that there was 
only a gentleman with one eye : and that he and the landlord were drinldng a 
bowl of bishop together. 

“ I will join them,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ He’s a queer customer, the vun-eyed vun, sir,” observed Mr. Weller, as he led 
the way. “He’s a gammonin’ that ’ere landlord, he is, sir, till he don’t rightly 
know wether he ’s a standing on the soles of his boots or the crown of his hat.” 

The individual to whom this observation referred, was sitting at the upper end 
of the room when Mr. Pickwick entered, and was smoking a large Dutch pipe, 
with his eye intently fixed on the round face of the landlord : a jolly looking old 
personage, to w’hom he had recently been relating some tale of wonder, as was 
testified by sundry disjointed exclamations of, “ Well, I wouldn’t have believed 
it ! The strangest thing I ever heard ! Couldn’t have supposed it possible ! ” and 
other expressions of astonishment which burst spontaneously from his lips, as he 
returned the fixed gaze of the one-eyed man. 

“ Servant, sir,” said the one-eyed man to Mr. Pickwick. “ Fine night, sir.” 

“ Very much so indeed,” replied Mr. Pickwick, as the waiter placed a small 
decanter of brandy, and some hot water before him. 

While Mr. Pickwick was mixing his brandy and water, the one-eyed man looked 
round at him earnestly, from time to time, and at length said : 

“ I think I’ve seen you before.” 

“ I don’t recollect you,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I dare say not,” said the one-eyed man. “ You didn’t know me, but I knew 
tw'o friends of yours that were stopping at the Peacock at Eatanswill, at the time 
of the Election.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“Yes,” rejoined the one-eyed man. “I mentioned a little circumstance to 
them about a friend of mine of the name of Tom Smart. Perhaps you’ve heard 
tliem speak of it.” 

“ Often,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling. “ He was your uncle, I think ?” 

“ No, no ; only a friend of my uncle’s,” replied the one-eyed man. 

“ He was a wonderful man, that uncle of yours, though,” remarked the landlord 
shaking his head. 

“ Well, I think he was, I think I may say he was,” answered the one-eyed 
man. “ I could tell you a story about that same uncle, gentlemen, that would 
rather surprii-e you.” 


42a 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ Could you ? ” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Let us hear it, by all means.” 

The one-eyed Bagman ladled out a glass of negus from the bowl, and drank it . 
smoked a long whifi' out of the Dutch pipe ; and then, calling to San. Wellei 
who was lingering near the door, that he needn’t go away 'mless he wanted to, 
because the stoiy was no secret, fixed his eye upon the landlord’s and proceeded, 
in the words of the next chapter. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

CONTAINING THE STORY OF THE BAGMAN’S UNCLE. 

“My uncle, gentlemen,” said the bagman, “was one of the merriest, plea- 
santest, cleverest fellows that ever lived. I wish you had known him, gentlemen. 
On second thoughts, gentlemen, I don't ^vish you had known him, for if you had, 
3 -ou would have been all, by this time, in the ordinaiy course of nature, if not 
dead, at all events so near it, as to have taken to stopping at home and giving up 
company : which would have deprived me of the inestimable pleasure of addressing 
you at this moment. Gentlemen, I wish your fathers and mothers had known my 
uncle. They would have been amazingly fond of him, especially your respectable 
mothers ; I know they would. If any two of his numerous virtues predominated 
over the many that adorned his character, I should say they were his mixed punch 
and his after supper song. Excuse my dwelling on these melancholy recollections 
of departed worth ; yo\x won’t see a man like my uncle every day in the week. 

“1 have always considered it a great point in my uncle’s character, gentlemen, 
that he was the intimate friend and companion of Tom Smart, of the gieat house 
of Bilson and Slum, Cateatcn Street, City. My uncle collected for Tiggin and 
Welps, but for a long time he went pretty near the same journey as Tom ; and 
the very first night they met, my uncle took a fancy for Tom, and Tom took a famy 
for my uncle. They made a bet of a new hat before they had known each other 
half an hour, who should brew the best quart of punch and drink it the quickest. 
My uncle was judged to have won the making, but Tom Smart beat him in the 
di inking by about half a salt-spoon-full. They took another quart a-piece to drink 
each other’s health in, and were staunch friends ever afterwards. There’s a 
destiny in these things, gentlemen ; we can’t help it. 

“ In personal appearance, ray uncle was a trifle shorter than the middle size ; 
he was a thought stouter too, than the ordinaiy run of people, and perhaps hu 
face might be a shade redder. He had the jolliest face you ever saw, gentlemen : 
.something like Punch, with a handsomer nose and chin ; his eyes were always 
twinkling and sparkling with good humour ; and a smile — not one of your 
unmeaning wooden grins, but a real, 'merry, hearty, good-tempered smile — was 

[ perpetually on his countenance. He was pitched out of his gig once, and 
mocked, head first, against a mile-stone. There he lay, stunned, and so cut 
about the face with some gravel which had been heaped up alongside it, that, to 
use my uncle’s own strong expression, if his mother could have revisited the earth, 
she wouldn’t havq known him. Indeed, when I come to think of the matter, 
gentlemen, I leel pretty sure she wouldn’t, for she died when my uncle was two 
years and seven months old, and I think it’s very likely that, even without the 
gravel, his top-boots would have puzzled the good lady not a little : to say nothing 
of his jolly red face. However, there he lay, and I have heard my uncle say, 
many a time, that the man said who picked him up that he was snviling as merrily 


Whiskey Toddy. 


4^3 


as if he had tumbled out for a treat, and that after they had bled him, the firsl 
faint glimmerings of returning animation, were, his jumping up in bed, bursting 
out into a loud laugh, kissing the young woman who held the basin, and demand- 
ing a mutton chop and a pickled walnut. He was very fond of pickled walnuts, 
gentlemen. He said he always found that, taken without vinegar, they relished 
the beer. 

“ My uncle’s great journey was in the fall of the leaf, at which time he collected 
debts, and took orders, in the north : going from London to Edinburgh, from 
Edinburgh to Glasgow, from Glasgow back to Edinburgh, and thence to London 
by the smack. You are to understand that his second visit to Edinburgh was for his 
o^vn pleasure. He used to go back for a week, just to look up his old friends ; 
and what with breakfasting with this one, lunching with that, dining vath a third, 
and supping with another, a pretty tight week he used to make of it. I don’t 
know whether any of you, gentlemen, ever partook of a real substantial hospitable 
Scotch breakfast, and then went out to a slight lunch of a bushel of oysters, a 
dozen or so of bottled ale, and a noggin or two of whiskey to close up with. If 
you ever did, you will agree with me that it requires a pretty strong head to go out 
to dinner and supper afterwards. 

“ But, bless your hearts and eye-brows, all this sort of thing was nothing to my 
uncle ! He was so well seasoned, that it was mere_^child’s play. I have heard 
him say that he could see the Dundee people out, any day, and walk home after- 
wards without staggering ; and yet the Dundee people have as strong heads and 
as strong punch, gentlemen, as you are likely to meet with, between the poles. I 
have heard of a Glasgow man and a Dundee man drinking against each other for 
fifteen hours at a sitting. They were both suffocated, as nearly as could be ascer- 
tained, at the same moment, but with this trifling exception, gentlemen, they were 
not a bit the worse for it. ^ 

“ One night, within four-and-twenty hours of the time when he had settled 
to take shipping for London, my uncle supped at the house of a very old friend of 
his, a Baillie Mac something and four S)dlables after it, who lived in the old town 
of Edinburgh. There were the baillie’s wife, and the baillie’s three daughters, and 
the baillie’s gi-owm-up son, and three or four stout, bushy eye-browed, canny old 
Scotch fellows, that the baillie had got together to do honour to my uncle, and 
help to make meiry. It was a glorious supper. There were kippered salmon, and 
Finnan haddocks, and a lamb’s head, and a haggis — a celebrated Scotch dish, 
gentlemen, which my uncle used to say always looked to him, when it came 
to table, very much like a cupid’s stomach — and a great many other things besides, 
that I forget the names of, but very good things notwithstanding. The lassies 
were pretty and agreeable ; the baillie’s wife was one of the best creatures that ever 
lived ; and my uncle was in thoroughly good cue. The consequence of which was, 
that the young ladies tittered and giggled, and the old lady laughed out loud, and the 
baillie and the other old fellows roared till they were red in the face, the whole 
mortal time. I don’t quite recollect how many tumblers of whiskey toddy each 
man drank after supper ; but this I know, that about one o’clock in the morning, 
the baillie’s grown-up son became insensible while attempting the first verse of 
‘ Willie brewed a peck o’ maut ; ’ and he having been, for half an hour before, the 
only other man visible above the mahogany, it occurred to my uncle that it was 
almost time to think about going: especially as drinking had set in at seven 
o’clock, in order that he might get home at a decent hour. But, thinking it might 
not be quite polite to go just then, my uncle voted himself into the chair, mixed 
another glass, rose to propose his own health, addressed himself in a neat and 
complimentary speech, and drank the toast with great enthusiasm. Still nobody 
woke ; so my uncle took a little drop more — neat this time, to prevent the toddy 


424 


The Pickwick Club. 


from disagreeing with him — and, laying violent hands on his hat, sallied forth into 
the street. 

“ It was a wild gusty night when my uncle closed thebaillie’s door, and settling 
his hat firmly on his head, to prevent the wind from taking it, thnist his hands 
into his pockets, and looking upward, took a short suiwey of the state of the weather. 
The clouds were drifting over the moon at their giddiest speed : at one time wholly 
obscuring her : at another, suffering her to burst forth in full splendour and shed her 
light on all the objects around : anon, driving over her again, with increased velocity, 
and shrouding everything in darkness. ‘ Really, this won’t do,’ said my uncle, 
addressing himself to the weather, as if he felt himself personally offended. 

‘ This is not at all the kind of thing for my voyage. It will not do, at any price,’ 
said my uncle very impressively. Having repeated this, several times, he recovered 
his balance with some difficulty — for he was rather giddy with looking up into the 
sky so long — and walked merrily on. 

“ The baillie’s house was in the Canongate, and my uncle was going to the 
other end of Leith Walk, rather better than a mile’s journey. On either side of 
him, there shot up against the dark sky, tall g^unt straggling houses, with time- 
stained fronts, and windows that seemed to have shared the lot of eyes in mortals, 
and to have grown dim and sunken with age. Six, seven, eight stories high, were 
the houses ; story piled above stoiy’’, as children build with cards — throwing their 
dark shadows over the roughly paved road, and making the dark night darker. A 
few oil lamps were scattered at long distances, but they only served to mark the 
dirty entrance to some narrow close, or to show where a common stair communi- 
cated, by steep and intricate windings, with the various flats above. Glancing at 
all these tilings with the air of a man who had seen them too often before, to 
think them worthy of much notice now, my uncle walked up the middle of the 
street, with a thumb in each waistcoat pocket, indulging from time to time in 
various snatches of song, chaunted forth with such good will and spirit, that the 
quiet honest folk started from their first sleep and lay trembling in bed till the 
sound died away in the distance ; when, satisfying themselves that it was only 
some drunken ne’er-do-weel finding his way home, they covered themselves up 
warm and fell asleep again. 

“I am particular in describing how my uncle walked up the middle of the 
street, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, gentlemen, because, as he often 
used to say (and with gieat reason too) there is nothing at all extraordinaiy in this 
story, unless you distinctly understand at tlie beginning that he was not by any 
means of a marvellous or romantic turn. 

“ Gentlemen, my uncle walked on with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, 
taking the middle of the street to himself, and singing, now a verse of a love song, 
and then a verse of a drinking one, and when he was tired of both, whistling 
melodiously, until he reached the North Bridge, which, at this point, connects 
the old and new towns of Edinburgh. Here he stopped for a minute, to look at 
the strange iiTegular clusters of lights piled one above the other, and twinkling 
afar off so high, that they looked like stars, gleaming from the castle walls on 
the one side and the Calton. Hill on the other, as if they illuminated veritable 
castles in the air ; while the old picturesque town slept heavily on, in gloom and 
darkness below : its palace and chapel of Holyrood, guarded day and night, as 
a friend of my uncle’s used to say, by old Arthur’s Seat, towering, surly and dark, 
like some gruff genius, over the ancient city he has watched so long. I say, gentle- 
men, my uncle stopped here, for a minute, to look about him ; and then, paying 
a compliment to the weather which had a little cleared up, though the moon was 
ai^dng, walked, on again, as royally as before ; keeping the middle of the road 
with great dignity, and looking as if he would very much like to meet with some- 


Old Mail Coaches. 


4^3 


Dody who would dispute possession of it with him. There was nobody at all 
disposed to contest the point, as it happened ; and so, on he went, with his thumbs 
in his waistcoat pockets, like a lamb. 

“When my uncle reached the end of Leith Walk, he had to cross a pretty large 
piece of waste giound which separated him from a short street which he had to 
turn down, to go direct to his lodging. Now, in this piece of waste ground, there 
was, at that time, an enclosure belonging to some wheelwright who contracted 
with the Post-office for the purchase of old worn-out mail coaches ; and my uncle, 
being very fond of coaches, old, young, or middle-aged, all at once took it into 
his head to step out of his road for no other purpose than to peep between the 
palings at these mails — about a dozen of which, he remembered to have seen, 
crowded together in a very forlorn and dismantled state, inside. My uncle was 
a very enthusiastic, emphatic sort of pemon, gentlemen ; so, finding that he could 
not obtain a good peep between the palings, he got over them, and sitting himself 
quietly down on an old axletree, began to contemplate the mail coaches with a 
deal of gravity. 

“ There might be a dozen of them, or there might be more — my uncle was never 
quite certain on this point, and being a man of very scrupulous veracity about 
numbers, didn’t like to say — but there they stood, all huddled together in the most 
desolate condition imaginable. The doors had been torn from their hinges and 
removed ; the linings had been stripped off ; only a shred hanging here and there 
by a rusty nail ; the lamps were gone, the poles had long since vanished, the iron- 
work was rusty, the paint was worn away ; the wind whistled through the chinks in 
the bare wood work ; and the rain, which had collected on the roofs, fell, drop 
by drop, into the insides with a hollow and melancholy sound. They were the 
decaying skeletons of departed mails, and in that lonely place, at that time of 
night, they looked chill and dismal. 

“ My uncle rested his head upon his hands, and thought of the busy bustling 
people who had rattled about, years before, in the old coaches, and were now as 
silent and changed ; he thought of the numbers of people to whom one of those 
crazy mouldering vehicles had borne, night after night, for many years, and 
through all weathers, the anxiously expected intelligence, the eagerly looked-for 
remittance, the promised assurance of health and safety, the sudden announce- 
ment of sickness and death. The merchant, the lover, the wife, the widow, the 
mother, the schoolboy, the very child who tottered to the door at the postman’s 
knock — how had they all looked foiward to the arrival of tire old coach. And 
where were they all now ! 

“ Gentlemen, my uncle used to say that he thought all this at the time, but I 
rather suspect he learnt it out of some book afterwards, for he distinctly stated that 
he fell into a kind of doze, as he sat on the old axletree looking at the decayed 
mail coaches, and that he was suddenly awakened by some deep church-bell strik- 
ing two. Now, my uncle was never a fast thinker, and if he had thought all 
these things, I am quite certain it would have taken him till full half-past two 
o’clock, at the very least. I am, therefore, decidedly of opinion, gentlemen, that 
my uncle fell into the kind of doze, without having thought about any thing at all. 

“Be this, as it may, a church beU struck two. My uncle woke, rubbed his 
eyes, and jumped up in astonishment. 

“ In one instant after the clock struck two, the whole of this deserted and quiet 
spot had become a scene of most extraordinary life and animation. The mail 
coach doors were on their hinges, the lining was replaced, the iron-work was as 
good as new, the paint was restored, the lamps were alight, cushiors and great 
coats were on every coach box, porters were thrusting parcels into every boot, 
guards were stowing away letter-bags, hostlers were dashing pails of water against 


The Pickwick Club. 


4ji6 


the renovated wheels ; numbers of men were rushing about, fixing poles into eve^ 
coach ; passengers arrived, portmanteaus were handed up, horses were put to ; in 
short, it was ]>erfectly clear that ever\' mail there, was to be off directly. Gentle- 
men, my uncle opened his eyes so wide at all this, that, to the very last moment 
of his life, he used to wonder how it fell out that he had ever been able to shut 
’em again. 

“ ‘ Now then ! ’ said a voice, as my uncle felt a hand on his shoulder, ‘You’re 
booked for one inside. You’d better get in.’ 

“ ‘ / booked ! ’ said my uncle, turning round. 

“ ‘ Yes, certainly.’ 

My uncle, gentlemen, could say nothing; he was so very much astonished. 
The queerest thing of all, was, that although there was such a crowd of persons, 
and although fresh faces were pouring in, every moment, there was no telling 
where they came from. They seemed to start up, in some strange manner, from 
the ground, or the air, and disappear in the same way. When a porter had put 
his luggage in the coach, and received his fare, he turned round and was gone ; 
and before my uncle had well begun to wonder what had become of him, half-a- 
dozen fresh ones started up, and staggered along under the weight of parcels 
which seemed big enough to crush them. The passengers were all dressed so 
oddly too ! Large, broad-skirted laced coats with great cuffs and no collars ; and 
wigs, gentlemen,— great formal wigs with a tie behind. My uncle could make 
nothing of it. 

“ ‘ Now, are yon going to get in ? ’” said the person who had addressed my uncle 
before. He was dressed as a mail guard, with a wig on his head and most enor- 
mous cuffs to his coat, and had a lantern in one hand, and a huge blunderbuss in 
the other, which he was going to stow away in his little aiTn-chest. * Are yon 
going to get in. Jack Martin ? ’ said the guard, holding the lantern to my uncle’s 
face. 

“ ‘ Hallo ! ’ said my uncle, falling back a step or two. ‘ That’s familiar! * 

“ ‘ It’s so on the way-bill,’ replied the guard. 

“‘Isn’t there a ‘Mister’ before it.?’ said my uncle. For he felt, gentlemen, 
fiat for a guard he didn’t know, to call him Jack Martin, was a liberty which the 
.•*ost-office wouldn’t have sanctioned if they had known it. 

“ ‘ No, there is not,’ rejoined the guard coolly. 

“ ‘ Is the fare paid ? ’ inquired my uncle. 

“ ‘ Of course it is,’ rejoined the guard. 

“ ‘ It is, is it ? ’ said my uncle. ‘ Then here goes! Wliich coach ? * 

“ ‘ This,’ said the guard, pointing to an old-fashioned Edinburgh and London 
Mail, which had the steps down, and the door open. ‘ Stop ! Here are the other 
passengers. Let them get in first.’ 

“As the guard spoke, there all at once appeared, right in front of my uncle, a 
young gentleman in a powdered wig, and a sky-blue coat trimmed with silver, 
made very full and broad in the skirts, which were lined with buckram. Tiggin 
and Welps were in the printed calico and waistcoat piece line, gentlemen, so my 
uncle knew all the materials at once. He wore knee breeches, and a kind of leg- 
gings rolled up over his silk stockings, and shoes with buckles ; he had ruffles at 
his wrists, a three-cornered hat on his head, and a long taper sword by his side. 
The flaps of his waistcoat came half way down his thighs, and the ends of his 
cravat reached to his waist. He stalked gravely to the coach-door, pulled off his 
hat, and held it above his head at aim’s length : cocking his little finger in the air 
at the same time, as some aff ected people do, when they take a cup of tea. Then 
ue drew his feet together, and made a low grave bow, "and then put out his left 
hand. My uncle was just going to step forward, and shake it heartily, wdien 


Coolness of the Bagman s Uncle. 


be perceived that these attentions were directed, not towards him, but to a young 
lady who ju: t then appeared at the foot of the steps, attired in an old-hishioned 
green velvet dress with a long waist and stomacher. She had no bonnet on 
her head, gentlemen, which was muffled in a black silk hood, but she looked 
round for an instant as she prepared to get into the coach, and such a beautiful 
fai.-e as she disclosed, my uncle had never seen — not even in a picture. She 
got into the _ coach, holding up her dress with one hand; and, as my uncle 
always said with a round oath, when he told the story, he wouldn’t have believed 
it possible that legs and feet could have been brought to such a state of per- 
fection unless he had seen them with his own eyes. 

‘ But, in this one glimpse of the beautiful face, my uncle saw that the young 
lady cast an imploring look upon him, and that she appeared terrified and 
distressed. He noticed, too, that the young fellow in the powdered wig, notv/ith- 
standing his show of gallantly, which was all very fine and grand, clasped her 
tight by the wrist when she got in, and followed himself immediately after- 
wards. An uncommonly ill-looking fellow, in a close brown wig and a plum- 
coloured suit, wearing a very large sword, and boots up to his hips, belonged 
to the party ; and wfflen he sat himself down next to the young lady, who shrunk 
into a corner at his approach, my uncle was confirmed in his original impres- 
sion that something dark and mysterious was going forward, or, as he always 
said himself, that ‘ there w-as a screw loose somewhere.’ It’s quite surprising how 
quickly he made up his mind to help the lady at any peril, if she needed help. 

“‘Death and lightning!’ exclaimed the young gentleman, laying his hand 
upon his sword as my uncle entered the coach. 

“ ‘ Blood and thunder ! ’ roared the other gentleman. *With this, he whipped 
his sword out, and made a lunge at my uncle without further ceremony. My 
uncle had no weapon about him, but with great dexterity he snatched the ill- 
looking gentleman’s three-cornered hat from his head, and, receiving the point of 
his sword right through the crown, squeezed the sides together, and held it tight. 

“ ‘ Pink him behind I ’ cried the ill-looking gentleman to his companion, as he 
struggled to regain his sword. 

“ ‘ He had better not,’ cried my uncle, displaying the heel of one of his shoes, 
in a threatening manner. “I’ll kick his brains out, if he has any, or fracture his 
skull if he hasn’t.’ Exerting all his strength, at this moment, my uncle wrenched 
the ill-looking man’s sword from his grasp, and flung it clean out of the coach- 
window : upon which the younger gentleman vociferated ‘ Death and lightning ! ’ 
again, and laid his hand upon the hilt of his sword, in a very fierce manner, but 
didn’t draw it. Perhaps, gentlemen, as my uncle used to say with a smile, 
perhaps he was afraid of alarming the lady. 

“ ‘ Now, gentlemen,’ said my uncle, taking his seat deliberately, ‘ I don’t want 
to have any death, with or without lightning, in a lady’s presence, and we have 
had quite blood and thundering enough for one journey ; so, if you please, we’ll 
sit in our places like quiet insides. Here, guard, pick up that gentleman’s carving- 
knife.’ 

“ As quickly as my uncle said the words, the guard appeared at the coach- 
window, with the gentleman’s sword in his hand. He held up his lanteni, and 
looked earnestly in my uncle’s face, as he handed it in : when, by its light, my 
uncle saw, to his gi'eat surprise, that an immense crowd of mail-coach guards 
swarmed round the window, every one of whom had his eyes earnestly fixed upon 
him too. He had never seen such a sea of white faces, red bodies, and earnest 
eyes, in all his born days. 

“ ‘This is fhe strangest sort of thing I ever had anything to do with,’ thought 
my ;uiK'le ; ‘ allow me to return yc'u your hat, sir.’ 


428 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ ‘The ill-looking gentleman received his three-cornered hat in silence, looked 
at the hole in the middle with an inquiring air, and finally stuck it on the ton 
of his wig with a solemnity the effect of which was a trifle impaired by his 
sneezing violently at the moment, and jerking it off again. 

“ ‘All right!’ cried the guard with the lantern, mounting into his little seat 
behind. Away they went. My uncle peeped out of the coach-window as they 
emerged from "the yard, and observed that the other mails, with coachmen, guards, 
horses, and passengers, complete, were driving round and round in circles, at a 
slow trot of about five miles an hour. My uncle burnt with indignation, gentlemen. 
As a commercial man, he felt that the mail bags were not to be trifled with, and 
he resolved to memorialise the Post-office on the subject, the very instant ha 
reached London. 

“At present, however, his thoughts were occupied with the young lady who 
sat in the farthest corner of the coach, with her face muffled closely in her hood , 
the gentleman with the sky-blue coat sitting opposite to her ; the other man 
in the plum-coloured suit, by her side ; and both watching her intently. If she so 
much as rustled the folds of her hood, he could hear the ill-looking man clap hia 
hand upon his sword, and could tell by the other’s breathing (it was so dark he 
couldn’t see his face) that he was looking as big as if he were going to devour her 
at a mouthful. This roused my uncle more and more, and he resolved, come 
what come might, to see the end of it. He had a great admiration for bright 
eyes, and sweet faces, and pretty legs and feet ; in short, he was fond of the whole 
sex. It runs in our family, gentlemen — so am I. 

“ Many were the devices which my uncle practised, to attract the lady’s atten- 
tion, or at all events, to engage the mysterious gentlemen in conversation. They 
were all in vain ; the gentlemen wouldn’t talk, and the lady didn’t dare. He 
thrust his head out of the coach-window at intervals, and bawled out to know why 
they didn’t go faster 7 But he called till he was hoarse ; nobody paid the least 
attention to him. He leant back in the coach, and thought of the beautiful face, 
and the feet and legs. This answered better ; it wiled away the time, and kept 
him from wondering where he was going, and how it was that he found himself in 
such an odd situation. Not that this would have worried him much, any way — • 
he was a mighty free and easy, roving, devil-may-care sort of person, was my 
uncle, gentlemen. 

“ All of a sudden the coach stopped. ‘ Hallo I’ said my uncle, ‘ What’s in tire 
wind now } ’ 

“ ‘ Alight here,’ said the guard, letting down the steps. 

“ ‘ Here ! ’ cried my uncle. 

“ ‘ Here,’ rejoined the guard. 

“ ‘I’ll do nothing of the sort,’ said my uncle. 

“ ‘ Veiy well, then stop where you are,’ said the guard. 

“ ‘ I will,’ said my uncle. 

“ ‘ Do,’ said the guard. 

“The other passengers had regarded this colloquy with great attention, and, 
fiR ling that my uncle was deteniiined not to alight, "the younger man squeezed 
past him, to hand the lady out. At this moment, the ill-looking man was 
inspecting the hole in the crown of his three-cornered hat. As the young lady 
brushed past, she dropped one of her gloves into my uncle’s hand, and softly 
whispered, with her lips, so close to his face that he felt her warm breath on his 
nose, the single word ‘ Help I ’ Gentlemen, my uncle leaped out of the coach at 
once, with such violence that it rocked on the springs again. 

“ ‘ Oh I You’ve thought better of it, have you ?’ said tlie guard when he saw’ my 
standing on the ground. 


Ghostly Travelling. 


4*9 


** My uncle looked at the guard foi a few seconds, in some doubt whether it 
wouldn’t be better to wrench his blunderbuss from him, fire it in the face of the 
man with the big sword, knock the rest of the company over the head with the 
stock, snatch up the young lady, and go off' in the smoke. On second thoughts, 
however, he abandoned this plan, as being a shade too melodramatic in the 
execution, and followed the two mysterious men, who, keeping the lady between 
them, were now entering an old house in front of which the coach had stopped. 
They turned into the passage, and my uncle followed. 

“ Of all the ruinous and desolate places my uncle had ever beheld, this was the 
most so. It looked as if it had once been a large house of entertainment ; but the 
roof had fallen in, in many places, and the stairs were steep, rugged, and broken. 
There was a huge fire-place in the room into which they walked, and the chimney 
was blackened with smoke ; but no warm blaze lighted it up now. The white 
feathery dust of burnt wood was still strewed over the hearth, but the stove was 
cold, and all was dark and gloomy. 

“ ‘ Well,’ said my uncle, as he looked about him, ‘ A mail travelling at the rate 
of six miles and a half an hour, and stopping for an indefinite time at such a hole 
as this, is rather an irregular sort of proceeding I fancy. This shall be made 
known. I’ll write to the papers.’ 

“ My uncle said this in a pretty loud voice, and in an open unreserved sort of 
manner, with the view of engaging the two strangers in conversation if he could. 
But, neither of them took any more notice of him than whispering to each other, 
and scowling at him as they did so. The lady was at the farther end of the 
room, and once she ventured to wave her hand, as if beseeching my uncle’s 
assistance. 

“ At length the two strangers advanced a little, and the conversation began in 
earnest. 

“‘You don’t know this is a private room; I suppose, fellov/?* said the 
gentleman in sky-blue. 

“ ‘ No, I do not, fellow,’ rejoined my uncle. ‘ Only if this is a private room 
specially ordered for the occasion, I should think the public room must be a very 
comfortable one ;’ with this my uncle sat himself down in a high-backed chair, 
and took such an accurate measure of the' gentleman, with his eyes, that Tiggin 
and Welps could have supplied him with printed calico for a suit, and not an inch 
too much or too little, from that estimate alone. 

“ ‘ Quit this room,’ said both the men together, grasping their swords. ^ 

“ ‘ Eh .? ’ said my uncle, not at all appearing to comprehend their meaning. 

“ ‘ Quit the room, or you are a dead man,’ said the ill-looking fellow with the 
large sword, drawing it at the same time and flourishing it in the air. 

“ ‘ Down with him !’ cried the gentleman in sky-blue, drawing his sword also, 
and falling back two or three yards. ‘ Down with him ! ’ The lady gave a loud 
scream. 

“ Now, my uncle was always remarkable for great boldness, and great presence 
of mind. All the time that he had appeared so indifferent to what was going on, 
he had been looking slyly about, for some missile or weapon of defence, and at 
the very instant when the swords were drawn, he espied, standing in the chimney 
comer, an old basket-hilted rapier in a rusty scabbard. At one bound, my uncle 
caught it in his hand, diew it, flourished it gallantly above his head, called aloud 
to the lady to keep out of the way, hurled the chair at the man in sky-blue, and 
the scabbard at the man in plum-colour, and taking advantage of the confusion, 
fell upon them both, pell-mell. 

“ Gentlemen, there is an old story'— none the worse for being true— regarding a 
fine young Irish gentleman, who being asked if he could play the fiddle, replied 


The Pickwick Club. 


4i'-' 

he had no doubt he could, but he couldn’t exactly say, for certain, because he had 
never tried. This is not inapplicable to my uncle and his fencing. He had never 
had a sword in his hand before, except once when he played Richard the Third at 
a private theatre : upon which occasion it was arranged with Richmond that he 
was to be run through, from behind, without showing fight at all. But here he 
was, cutting and slashing with two experienced swordsmen ; thrusting and guard- 
ing and poking and slicing, and acquitting himself in the most manful and dexterous 
manner possible, although up to that time he had never been aware that he had 
the least notion of the science. It only shows how true the old saying is, that a 
man never knows what he can do, till he tries, gentlemen. 

“ The noise of the combat was terrific ; each of the three combatants swearing 
like troopers, and their swords clashing with as much noise as if all the knives and 
steels in Newport market were rattl ng together, at the same time. When it was 
at its very height, the lady (to encourage my uncle most probably) withdrew her 
hood entirely from her face, and disclosed a countenance of such dazzling beauty, 
that he would have fought against fifty men, to win one smile from it, and die. He 
had done wonders before, but now he began to powder away like a raving mad 
giant. 

“ At this very moment, the gentleman in sky-blue turning round, and seeing 
the young lady with her face uncovered, vented an exclamation of rage and jealousy, 
and, turning his weapon against her beautiful bosom, pointed a thrust at her heart, 
which caused n'.y uncle to utter a cry of apprehension that made the building ring. 
The lady stepped lightly aside, and snatching the young man’s sword from his 
hand, before he had recovered his balance drove him to the wall, and running it 
through him, and the panelling, up to the very hilt, pinned him there, hard and 
fast. It was a splendid example. My uncle, with a loud shout of triumph, and a 
strength that was iiresistible, made his adversary retreat in the same direction, and 
plunging the old rapier into the very centre of a large red flower in the pattern of 
his waistcoat, nailed him beside his friend ; there they both stood, gentlemen, 
jerking their arms and legs about, in agony, like the toy-shop figures that are 
moved by a piece of packthread. My uncle always said, afterwards, that this was 
one of the surest means he knew of, for disposing of an enemy ; but it was liable 
to one objection on the ground of expense, inasmuch as it involved the loss of a 
sword for every man disabled. 

“ ‘ The mail, the mail ! ’ cried the lady, running up to my uncle and throwing 
her beautiful arms round his neck ; ‘ we may yet escape.’ 

“ ‘ May ! ’ cried my uncle ; ‘ why, my dear, there’s nobody else to kill, is there 
My uncle was rather disappointed, gentlemen, for he thought a little quiet bit of 
love-making would be agreeable after the slaughtering, if it were only to change 
the subject. 

‘ ' We have not an instant to lose here,’ said the young lady, ‘ He (pointing to 
the young gentleman in sky-blue) is the only son of the powerful Marquess of 
Fillcto\ille.’ 

“ ‘ Well then, my dear, I’m afraid he’ll never come to the title,’ said iiiy 
uncle, looking coolly at the young gentleman as he stood fixed up against the wall, 
in the cockchafer fashion I have described. * You have cut off the entail, my 

love,* 

“ ‘ I have been torn from my home and friends by these villains,’ said the young 
lady, h^r features glowing with indignation. ‘ That wretch would have married 
me by violence in another hour.’ 

“ ‘ Confound his impudence !’ said my uncle, bestowing a very contemptuous 
look on the dying heir of Filletoville. 

“ ‘ As you may gu^^s from what you have seen,’ said the young lady, ‘ the party 


Gallantry of the Bagmans Uncle. 


43 i 


were prepared to murder me if I appealed to any one for assistance. If theij 
accomplices find us here, we are lost. Two minutes hence may be too late. The 
mail ! ’ With these words, overpowered by her feelings, and the exertion of stick- 
ing the young Marquess of Filletoville, she sunk into my uncle’s arms. My uncle 
caught her up, and bore her to the house-door. There stood the mail, with four 
long-tailed, flowing-maned, black horses, ready harnessed ; but no coachman, lo 
guard, no hostler even, at the horses’ heads. 

“ Gentlemen, I hope I do no injustice to my uncle’s memory, when I express my 
opinion, that although he was a bachelor, he had held some ladies in his arms, 
before this time ; I believe indeed, that he had rather a habit of kissing barmaids ; 
and I know, that in one or two instances, he had been seen by credible witnesses, 
to hug a landlady in a very perceptible manner. I mention the circumstance, to 
show what a very uncommon sort of person this beautiful young lady must ha\e 
been, to have affected my uncle in the way she did ; he used to say, that as her 
long dark hair trailed over his arm, and her beautiful dark eyes fixed themselves 
upon his face when she recovered, he felt so strange and nervous that his legs 
tremiiled beneath him. But, who can look in a sweet soft pair of dark eyes, with- 
out feeling queer } I can’t, gentlemen. I am afraid to look at some eyes I know, 
and that’s the truth of it. 

“ ‘You will never leave me,’ murmured the young lady. 

“ ‘ Never,’ said my uncle. And he meant it too. 

“ ' My uear preserver ! ’ exclaimed the young lady. * My dear, kind, bravf 
preserver ! ’ 

“ 'Don’t,’ said my uncle, interrupting her. 

“ ‘ Why } ’ inquired the young lady. 

“ ‘ Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak,’ rejoined my uncle, 
•that I’m afraid I shall be rude enough to k ss it.’ 

“ The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so, and 
Slid — no, she didn’t say anything — she smiled. Wnen you are looking at a pair 
of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently break into a roguish 
smile — if you are very near them, and nobody else by — you cannot better testify 
your admiraiion of their beaudful form and colour than by kissing them at once. 
My uncle did so, and I honour him for it. 

“ ‘Hark!’ cried the young lady, starting. ‘The noise of wheels and 
horses I * 

“ ‘ So it is,’ said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels, and the 
trampling of hoofs ; but there appeared to be so many horses and carriages 
rattling towards them, from a distance, that it was im})ossible to form a ^ess at 
their number. The sound was like that of fifty breaks, with six blood cattle in each. 

“ ‘We are pursued!’ cried the young lady, clasping her hands. ‘We are 
pursued. I have no hope but in you ! ’ 

“ There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face, that my uncle 
made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told her not to be 
frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then advising her to draw up 
the window to keep the cold air out, mounted lo the box. 

“ ‘ Stay, love,’ cried the young lady. 

“ ‘ What’s the matter said my uncle, from the coach-box. 

“ ‘ I want to speak to you,’ said the young lady ; ‘ only a word. Only one word, 
dearest.’ 

“ ‘ Must I get down ?’ inquired n.y uncle. The lady made no answer, but she 
smiled again. Such a smile, gentlemen ! It beat the other one, all to nothing. 
My uncle descended from his perch in a twinkling. 

“ ‘ What is it, my dear ? ’ said my uncle, looldnt 


in at the coach window 


43 » 


The Pickwick Club. 


The lady happened to bend forward at the same time, and my nncle thought shf 
looked more beautiful than she had done yet. He was very close to her just then, 
gentlemen, so he really ought to know. 

“ ‘ What is it, my dear ? ’ said my uncle. 

“ ‘ Will you never love any one but me ; never many any one beside ?’ said 
the young lady. 

“ My uncle swore a great oath that he never would marry any body else, and 
the young lady drew in her head, and pulled up the window. He jumped upon 
the box, squared his elbows, adjusted the ribands, seized the whip which lay on 
the roof, gave one flick to the oft' leader, and away went the four long-tailed 
flowing-maned black horses, at fifteen good English miles an hour, with the old 
mail coach behind them. Wliew ! How they tore along ! 

“ The noise behind grew louder. The faster the old mail went, the faster came 
the pursuers — men, horses, dogs, were leagued in the pursuit. The noise was 
frightful, but, above all, rose the voice of the young lad)^, urging my uncle on, and 
shneking, ‘Faster! Faster!’ 

“ They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a hurri- 
cane. Houses, gates, churches, haystacks, objects of every kind they shot by, 
with a velocity and noise like roaring waters suddenly let loose. Still the noise of 
pursuit grew louder, and still my uncle could hear the young lady wildly screaming, 
* Faster ! Faster ! ’ 

“ My uncle plied whip and rein, and the horses flew onward till they were 
white with foam ; and yet the noise behind increased ; and yet the young lady 
cried ‘ Faster ! Faster !’ My uncle gave a loud stamp on the boot in the energy 
of the moment, and — found that it was grey morning, and he was sitting in the 
wheelwright’s yard, on the box of an old Edinburgh mail, shivering with the cold 
and wet and stamping his feet to warm them ! He got down, and looked 
eagerly inside for the beautiful young lady. Alas ! There was neither door nor 
seat to the coach. It was a mere shell. 

“ Of course, my uncle knew very well that there was some mystery in the matter, 
and that everything had passed exactly as he used to relate it. He remained 
staunch to the great oath he had swoni to the beautiful young lady : refusing several 
eligible landladies on her account, and dying a bachelor at last. He always said, 
what a curious thing it was that he should have found out, by such a mere accident 
as his clambering over the palings, that the ghosts of mail-coaches and horses, 
guards, coachmen, and passengers, were in the habit of making journeys regu- 
larly every night. He used to add, that he believed he was the only living person 
who had ever been taken as a passenger on one of these excursions. And I think 
he was right, gentlemen — at least I never heard of any other.” 


“ I wonder what these ghosts of mail-coaches cany in their bags,” said the land 
lord, who had listened to the whole story with profound attention. 

“ The dead letters, of course,” said the Bagman. 

** Oh, ah I To be sure,” rejoined the landlord. “ I never thought of that.” 


433 


A Volunteer. 


CHAPTER L. 

HOW MR. PICKWICK SPED UPON HIS MISSION, AND HOW HE WAS REINFORCED 
IN THE OUTSET BY A MOST UNEXPECTED AUXILIARY. 

The horses were put to, punctually at a quarter before nine next morning, and 
Mr. Pickwick and Sam Weller having each taken his seat, the one inside and the 
other out, the postillion was duly directed to repair in the first instance to Mr. 
Bob Sawy^er’s house, for the purpose of taking up Mr. Benjamin Allen. 

It was with feelings of no small astonishment, when the carriage drew up before 
the door with the red lamp, and the very legible inscription of “Sawyer, late 
Nockemorf,” that Mr. Pickwick saw, on popping his head out of the coach- 
window, the boy in the grey liveiy very busily employed in putting up the shutters : 
the which, being an unusual and an un-business-like proceeding at that hour of 
the morning, at once suggested to his mind, two inferences; the one, that some 
good liuend and patient of Mr. Bob Sawyer’s was dead ; the other, that Mr. Bob 
Sawyer himself was bankrupt. 

“ What is the matter said Mr. Pickwick to the boy. 

“ Nothing’s the matter, sir,” replied the boy, expanding his mouth to the whole 
breadth of his countenance. 

“ All right, all right !” cried Bob Sawyer suddenly appearing at the door, with 
a small leathern knapsack, limp and dirty, in one hand, and a rough coat and 
shawl throvra over the other arm. “ I’m going, old fellow.” 

“ You ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“Yes,” replied Bob Sawwer, “and a regular expedition we’ll make of it. 
Here, Sam ! Look out !” Thus briefly bespeaking Mr. Weller’s attention, Mr. 
Bob Sawyer jerked the leathern knapsack into the dickey, where it was imme- 
diately stowed away, under the seat, by Sam, who regarded the proceeding with 
great admiration. This done, Mr. Bob Sawyer, with the assistance of the boy, 
forcibly worked himself into the rough coat, which was a few sizes too small for 
him, and then advancing to the coach window, thrust in his head, and laughed 
boisterously. 

“ What a start it is, isn’t it !” cried Bob, wiping the tears out of his eyes, with 
one of the cuffs of the rough coat. 

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, with some embarrassment, “I had no idea 
of your accompanying us.” 

“No, that’s just the very thing,” replied Bob, seizing Mr. Piclavick by the 
lappel of his coat. “ That’s the joke.” 

“ Oh, that’s the joke said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Of course,” replied Bob. “It’s the whole point of the thing, you know — 
that, and leaving the business to take care of itself, as it seems to have made up 
its mind not to take care of me.” With this explanation of the phenomenon of 
the shutters, Mr. Bob Sawyer pointed to the shop, and relapsed into an ecstasy of 
mirth. 

“ Bless me, you are surely not mad enough to think of leaving your patients 
without anybody to attend them ! ” remonstrated Mr. Pickwick in a very serious tone. 

“ Why not asked Bob, in reply. “ I shall save by it, you know. None of 
them ever pay. Besides,” said Bob, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, 
“ they will be all the better for it ; for, being nearly out of drugs, and not able to 
increase my account just now, I should have been obliged to give them calomel 
ab round, and it would have been certain to have disagreed with some of thenu 
&D it’s all for the best.” 


? jr 


434 


The Pickwick CUb. 


There was a philosophy, and a strength of reasoning, about this reply, which 
Mr. Pickwick was not prepared for. He paused a few moments, and added, lesf 
firmly than before ; 

“ But this chaise, my young friend, will only hold two ; and I am pledged to 
Mr. Allen.” 

“ Don’t think of me for a minute,” replied Bob. “ I’ve arranged it all ; Sam 
and I will share the dickey between us. Look here. This little bill is to be 
wafered on the shop door : ‘ Sawyer, late Nockemorf. Enquire of Mrs. Cripj^s 
over the way.’ Mrs. Cripps is my boy’s mother. ‘ Mr. Sawyer’s very sorry,’ 
says Mrs. Cripps, ‘ couldn’t help it — fetched away early this morning to a consul- 
tation of the very first surgeons in the country — couldn’t do without him — would 
have him at any ])rice — tremendous operation.’ The fact is,” said Bob in conclu- 
sion, “ it’ll do me. more good than otherwise, I expect. If it gets into one of the 
local papers, it will be the making of me. Here’s Ben ; now then, jump in ! ” 

With these hurried words, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed the postboy on one side, 
jerked his friend into the vehicle, slammed the door, put up the steps, wafered the 
bill on the street door, locked it, put the key in his pocket, jumped into the dickey, 
gave the word for starting, and did the whole with such extraordinary precipita- 
tion, that before Mr. Pickwick had well began to consider whether Mr. Bob 
Sawyer ought to go or not, they were rolling away, with Mr. Bob Sawyer 
thoroughly established as part and parcel of the equipage. 

So long as their progress was confined to the streets of Bristol, the facetious 
Bob kept his professional green spectacles on, and conducted himself with be- 
coming steadiness and gravity of demeanour ; merely giving utterance to divers 
verbal witticisms for the exclusive behoof and entertainment of Mr. Samuel Wel- 
ler. But when they emerged on the open road, he threw off his green spectacles 
and his gravity together, and performed a great variety of practical jokes, which 
were calculated to attract the attention of the passers-by, and to render the car- 
riage and those it contained, objects of more than ordinary curiosity ; the least 
conspicuous among these feats, being, a most vociferous imitation of a key-bugle, 
and the ostentatious display of a crimson silk pocket-handkerchief attached to a 
walking-stick, which was occasionally waved in the air with various gestures indi- 
cative of supremacy and defiance. 

“ I wonder,” said Mr. Pickwick, stopping in the midst of a most sedate con- 
versation with Ben Allen, bearing reference to the numerous good qualities of Mr. 
Winkle and his sister ; “ I wonder what all the people we pass, can see in us to 
make them stare so.” 

“ It ’s a neat turn-out,” replied Ben Allen, with something of pride in his tone. 
“ They ’re not used to see this sort of thing, every day, I dare say.” 

“ Possibly,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ It may be so. Perhaps it is.” 

Mr. Pickwick might very probably have reasoned himself into the belief that it 
really was : had he not, just then happening to look out of the coach window, ob- 
sei-ved that the looks of the passengers betokened anything but respectful astonish- 
ment, and that various telegraphic communications appeared to be passing between 
them and some persons outside the vehicle ; whereupon it occurred to him that 
these demonstrations might be, in some remote degree, referable to the humorous 
deportment of Mr. Robert Sawyer. 

“ I hope,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ that our volatile friend is committing no ab- 
surdities in that dickey behind.” 

“ Oh dear, no,” replied Ben Allen. “ Except when he ’s elevated, Bob ’s the 
quietest creature breathing.” 

Here a prolonged imitation of a key-bugle broke upon the ear, succeeded by 
cfieer^ and screams, aU of which evidently proceeded from the throat and lungs 


Demonstrations Outside. 


ot the (j iietest creature breathing, or in plainer designation, of Mr. Bob S^wyei 
himself. 

Mr. Pickwiclt and Mr. Ben Allen looked expressively at each other, and the 
former gentleman taicing off his hat, and leaning out of the coach window until 
nearly the whole of his waistcoat was outside it, was at length enabled to catch a 
glimpse of his facetious friend. 

Air. Bob Sawyer was seated : not in the dickey, but on the roof of the chaise, 
with his legs as far asunder as they would conveniently go, wearing Air. Samuel 
Weller’s hat on one side of his head, and bearing, in one hand, a most enormous 
sandwich, while, in the other, he supported a goodly-sized case bottle, to both 
of which he applied himself with intense relish : varying the monotony of the 
occupation by an occasional howl, or the interchange of some lively badinage 
with any passing stranger. The crimson flag was carefully tied in an erect posi- 
tion to the rail of the dickey; and Air. Samuel Weller, decorated with Bob 
Sawyer’s hat, w^as seated in the centre thereof, discussing a twin sandwich, with 
an animated countenance, the expression of which betokened his entire and per- 
fect aj)proval of the whole arrangement. 

This was enough to irritate a gentleman w ith Air. Pickwick’s sense of propriety, 
but it was not the whole extent of the aggravation, for a stage-coach full, inside 
and out, was meeting them at the moment, and the astonishment of the passengers 
was very palpably evinced. The congratulations of an Irish family, too, who 
were keeping up with the chaise, and begging all the time, were of rather a boisterous 
description ; especially those of its male head, who appeared to consider the dis- 
play as part and parcel of some political, or other procession of triumph. 

“Air. Sawyer!” cried Mr. Pickwick, in a state of great excitement. “Air. 
Sawyer, sir!” 

“ Hallo !” responded that gentleman, looking over the side of the chaise with 
all the coolness in life. 

“ Are you mad, sir .?” demanded Air. Pickwick. 

“ Not a bit of it,” replied Bob ; “ only cheerful.” 

“ Cheerful, sir !” ejaculated Air. Pickwick. “ Take down that scandalous red 
handkerchief, 1 beg. I insist, sir. Sam, take it down.” 

Before Sam could interpose. Air. Bob Sawyer gracefully struck his colours, and 
having put them in his pocket, nodded in a courteous manner to Air. Pickwick, 
wiped the mouth of the case-bottle, and applied it to his own ; thereby informing 
him, without any unnecessary waste of words, that he devoted that draught to 
wishing him all manner of happiness and prosperity. Having done this. Bob 
replaced the cork with great care, and looking benignantly down on Mr. Pickwick, 
took a large bite out of the sandwich, and smiled. 

“ Come,” said Air. Pickwick, whose momentary anger was not quite proof 
against Bob’s immovable self-possession, “ pray let us have no more of this absur- 
dity.” 

“No, no,” replied Bob, once more exchanging hats with Air. Weller; “I 
didn't mean to do it, only I got so enlivened with the ride that I couldn’t help it.” 

“Think of the look of the thing,” expostulated Mr. Pickwick; “have some 
regard to appearances.” 

“Oh, certainly,” said Bob, “it’s not the sort of thing at all. All over, 
governor.” 

Satisfied with this assurance. Air. Pickwick once more drew his head into the 
chaise and pulled up the glass ; but he had scarcely resumed the conversation 
which Air. Bob Sawyer had interrupted, when he was somewhat startled by the 
apparition of a small dark body, of an oblong form, on the outsiie of the window, 
which gave sundry taps against it, as if impatient of admiijsion. 


The Pickwick Club. 




“ What’s this ?” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. 

“It looks like a case-bottle;” remarked Ben Allen, eyeing the object in 
question through his spectacles with some interest ; “I rather think it belongs 
to Bob.” 

The impression was perfectly accurate ; for Mr. Bob Sawyer having attached 
the case-bottle to the end of the walking-stick, was battering the window with it, 
in token of bis wish that his friends inside would partake of its contents, in all 
good fellowship and harmony. 

“ AVhat’s to be done .?” said Mr. Pickwick, looking at the bottle. “This pro- 
ceeding is more absurd than the other.” 

“I think it would be best to take it in,” replied Mr. Ben Allen; “ it would 
serve him right to take it in and keep it, wouldn’t it ?” 

“ It would,” said Mr. Pickwick : “ shall I .?” 

“ I think it the most proper course we could possibly adopt,” replied Ben. 

This advice quite coinciding with his own opinion, Air. Pickwick gently let 
down the window and disengaged the bottle from the stick : upon which the latter 
was drawn up, and Air. Bob Sawyer was heard to laugh heartily. 

“ What a merry dog it is 1” said Air. Pickwick, looldng round at his companion 
with the bottle in his hand. 

“ He is,” said Air. Allen. 

“ You cannot possibly be angry with him,” remarked Air. Pickwick. 

“ Quite out of the question,” observed Benjamin Allen. 

During this short interchange of sentiments. Air. Pickwick had, in an abstracted 
mood, uncorked the bottle. 

“ What is it inquired Ben Allen, carelessly. 

“I don’t know,” replied Mr. Pickwick, with equal carelessness. “It smells, 
I think, like milk-punch.” 

“ Oh, indeed said Ben. 

“I thivk so y" rejoined Air. Pickwick, very properly guarding himself against 
the possibility of stating an untruth : “mind, I could not undertake to say cer- 
tainly, without tasting it.” 

“ You had better do so,” said Ben ; “ we may as well know what it is.” 

“Do you think so.?” replied Air. Pickwick. “Well; if you are curious to 
know, of course I have no objection.” 

Ever willing to sacrifice his own feelings to the wishes of his friend, Mr. 
Pickwick at once took a pretty long taste. 

“What is it .?” inquired Ben Allen, interrupting him with some impatience. 

“ Curious,” said Air. Pickwick, smacking his lips, “ I hardly know, now. Oh, 
yes ! ” said Air. Pickwick, after a second taste. “ It is punch.” 

Air. Ben Allen looked at Air. Pickwick ; Air. Pickwick looked at Air. Ben 
Allen ; Air. Ben Allen smiled ; Air. Pickwick did not. 

“ It would serve him right,” said the last-named gentleman, with some severity, 
“ it would sei-ve hinj right to drink it every drop.” 

“ The ver)^ thing that occuned to me,” said Ben Allen. 

“Is it indeed.?” rejoined Air. Pickwick. “Then here’s his health!” With 
these words, that excellent person took a most energetic pull at the bottle, and 
handed it to Ben Allen, who was not slow to imitate his example. The smiles 
became mutual, and the milk-punch was gradually and cheerfully disposed of. 

“ Alter all,” said Air. Pickwick, as he drained the last drop, “ his pranks are 
reallv very amusing ; very entertaining indeed.” 

“ Vou may say that,” rejoined Air. Ben Allen. In pr^of of Bob Sa^\-yer’s 
being one of the funniest fellows alive, he proceeded to entertain Air. Pickwick 
with a long and circumstantial account how that gentleman once drank himself 


Refreshments by the IFay, 43 ; 

into a fever and got his head shaved ; the relation of which pleasant and agreeable 
history was only stopped by the stoppage of the chaise at the Bell at Berkeley 
Heath, to change horses. 

“ I say ! We’re going to dine here, aren’t we ?” said Bob, looking in at the 
window. 

“ Dine ! ” said Mr. Pickwick. “ Why, we have only come nineteen miles, and 
have eighty-seven and a half to go.” 

“Just the reason why we should take something to enable us to bear up 
against the fatigue,” remonstrated Mr. Bob Sawyer. 

“Oh, it’s quite impossible to dine at half-past eleven o’clock in the day,” 
«:eplied Mr. Pickwick, looking at his watch. 

“ So it is,” rejoined Bob, “ lunch is the very thing. Hallo, you sir ! Lunch 
for three, directly, and keep the horses back for a quarter of an hour. Tell them 
to put eveiy'thing they have cold, on the table, and some bottled ale, and let 
us taste your very best Madeira.” Issuing these orders with monstrous im- 
portance and bustle, Mr. Bob Sawyer at once hurried into the house to 
superintend the arrangements ; in less than five minutes he returned and declared 
them to be excellent. 

The quality of the lunch fully justified the eulogium which Bob had pronounced, 
and very great justice was done to it, not only by that gentleman, but Mr. Ben 
Allen and Mr. Pickwick also. Under the auspices of the three, the bottled ale 
and the Madeira were promptly disposed of ; and when (the horses being once 
more put to) they resumed their seats, with the case-bottle full of the best sub- 
stitute for milk-punch that could be procured on so short a notice, the key-bugle 
sounded, and the red flag waved, without the slightest opposition on Mr. 
Pickwick’s part. 

At the Hop Pole at Tewkesbury, they stopped to dine ; upon which occasion 
there was more bottled ale, with some more Madeira, and some Port besides ; and 
here the case-bottle was replenished for the fourth time. Under the influence of 
these combined stimulants, Mr. Pickwick and Mr. Ben Allen fell fast asleep for 
thirty miles, while Bob and Mr. Weller sang duets in the dickey. 

It was quite dark when Mr. Pickwick roused himself sufficiently to look out of 
window. The straggling cottages by the road-side, the dingy hue of every 
object visible, the murky atmosphere, the paths of cinders and brick-dust, the 
deep-red glow of furnace fires in the distance, the volumes of dense smoke issuing 
heavily forth from high toppling chimneys, blackening and obscuring everything 
around ; the glare of distant lights, the ponderous waggons which toiled along 
the road, laden with clashing rods of iron, or piled with heavy goods — all 
betokened their rapid approach to the great working town of Birmingham. 

As they rattled through the narrow thoroughfares leading to the heart of the 
turmoil, the sights and sounds of earnest occupation struck more forcibly on the 
senses. The streets were thronged with working-people. The hum of labour 
resounded from every house, lights gleamed from the long casement windows in 
the attic stories, and the whirl of wheels and noise of machinery shook the 
trembling walls. The fires, whose lurid sullen light had been visible for miles, 
blazed fiercely up, in the great works and factories of the town. The din of 
hammers, the rushing of steam, and the dead heavy clanking of engines, was the 
harsh music which arose from every quarter. 

The postboy was driving briskly through the open streets, and past the hand- 
some and well-lighted shops which intervene between the outskirts of the town 
and the Old Royal Hotel, before Mr. Pickwick had begun to consider the very 
difficult and delicate nature of the commission which had carried him I hither. 

The delicate nature of this commission, and tlie difficulty of executing it in • 


The Pichwick Club. 


satisfactory manner, were by no means lessened by the voluntary companionship 
of Mr. Bob SaAvyer. Truth to tell, Mr. Pickwick felt that his presence on che 
occasion, however considerate and gratifying, was by no means an honour he 
would willingly have sought ; in fact, he would cheerfully have given a reasonable 
sum of money to have had Mr. Bob Sawyer removed to any place at noc less 
than fifty miles’ distance, without delay. 

Mr. Pickwick had never held any personal communication with Mr. Winkle, 
senioi, although he had once or twice corresponded with him by letter, and re- 
turned satisfactoiy answers to his inquiries concerning the moral character and 
behaviour of his son ; he felt neivously sensible that to wait upon him, for the 
first time, attended by Bob Sawyer and Ben Allen, both slightly fuddled, was not 
the most ingenious and likely means that could have been hit upon to prepossess 
him in his favour. 

“However,” said Mr. Pickwick, endeavouring to re-assure himself, “I must 
do the best I can. I must see him to-night, for I faithfully promised to do so. 
If they persist in accompanying me, I must make the inteiwiew as brief as pos- 
sible, and be content to hope that, for theii- own sakes, they will not expose 
themselves.” 

As he comforted himself with these reflections, the chaise stopped at the door 
of the Old Royal. Ben Allen having been partially awakened from a stupendous 
sleep, and drugged out by the collar by Mr. Samuel Weller, Mr. Pickwick Avas 
enabled to alight. They were shown to a comfortable apartment, and Mr. Pick- 
wick at once propounded a question to the waiter concerning the whereabout of 
Mr. Winkle’s residence. 

“Close by, sir,” said the waiter, “not above five hundred yards, sir. Mr. 
Winkle is a wharfinger, sir, at the canal, sir. Private residence is not — oh dear- 
no, sir, not^\e hundred yards, sir.” Here the waiter blew a candle out, and made 
a feint of lighting it again, in order to afford Mr. Pickwick an opportunity of asking 
any further questions, if he felt so disposed. 

“Take anything now, sir.?” said the waiter, lighting the candle in desperation 
at Mr. Pickwick’s silence. “ Tea or cofi'ee, sir? Dinner, sir?” 

“ Nothing now.” 

“ Very good, sir. Like to order supper, sir ?” 

“ Not just now.” 

“ Very good, sir.” Here, he walked softly to the door, and then stopping short, 
turned round, and said, with great suavity ; 

“ Shall I send the chambermaid, gentlemen ?” 

“ You may if you please ;” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ V you please, sir.” 

“ And bring some soda water,” said Bob Sawyer. 

“Soda water, sir? Yes, sir.” With his m'ind apparently relieved from an 
overwdielming weight, by having at last got an order for something, the waiter 
imperceptibly melted away. Waiters never walk or run. They have a peculiar 
rnd mysterious power of skimming out of rooms, which other' mortals possess 
not. 

Some slight symptoms of vitality having been awakened in Mr. Ben Allen by 
the soda water, he suffered himself to be prevailed upon to wash his face and 
hands, and to submit to be brushed by Sam. Mr. Pickwick and Bob SaAvy'er 
having also repaired the disorder which the journey had made in their apparel, 
the three started forth, arm in arm, to Mr. Winkle’s ; Bob Sawyer impregnating 
the atmosphere with tobacco smoke as he walked along. 

About a quarter of a mile off', in a quiet, substantial-looking street, stood an old 
red-brick house with three steps before the door, and a brass plate upon it, bear- 


The Paternal Winkle. 


439 


fng, in fat Roman capitals, the words, “ Mr. Winkle.” The steps were veiy white, 
and the bricks were veiy red, and the house was very clean ; and here stood Mr. 
Pickwick, Mr. Benjamin Allen, and Mr. Bob Sawyer, as the clock struck ten. 

A smart servant girl answered the knock, and started on beholding the three 
strangers. 

“ Is Mr. Winkle at home, my dear inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ He is just going to supper, sir,” replied the girl. 

“ Give him that card if you please,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick. “ Say I am sorry 
to trouble him at so late an hour ; but I am anxious to see him to-night, and have 
only just arrived.” 

The girl looked timidly at Mr. Bob Sawyer, who was expressing his admiration 
of her personal charms by a variety of wonderful grimaces ; and casting an eye at 
the hats and great coats which hung in the passage, called another girl to mind 
the door while she went up stairs. The sentinel was speedily relieved ; for the 
girl returned immediately, and begging pardon of the gentlemen for leaving them 
in the street, ushered them into a door-clothed back parlour, half office and half 
dressing-room, in which the principal useful and ornamental articles of furniture, 
were a desk, a wash-hand stand and shaving glass, a boot-rack and boot-jack, a 
high stool, four chairs, a table, and an old eight-day clock. Over the mantel-piece 
were the sunken doors of an iron safe, while a couple of hanging shelves for 
books, an almanack, and several files of dusty papers, decorated the walls. 

“ Very sorry to leave you standing at the door, sir,” said the girl, lighting a 
lamp, and addressing Mr. Pickwick with a winning smile, “ but you was quite 
strangers to me ; and we have sush a many trampers that only come to see what 
they can lay their hands on, that really — ” 

“There is not the least occasion for any apology, my dear,” said Mr. Pickwick 
good humouredly. 

“ Not the slightest, my love,” said Bob Sa-wyer, playfully stretching forth his 
arms, and skipping from side to side, as if to prevent the young lady’s leaving the 
room. 

The young lady was not at all softened by these allurements, for she at once 
expressed her opinion that Mr. Bob Sawyer was an “ odous creetur ;” and, on his 
becoming rather more pressing in his attentions, imprinted her fair fingers upon 
his face, and bounced out of the room with many expressions of aversion and 
contempt. 

Deprived of the young lady’s society, Mr. Bob Sauyer proceeded to divert him- 
self by peeping into the desk, looking into all the table-drawers, feigning to pick 
the lock of the iron safe, turning the almanack with its face to the wall, trying on 
the boots of Mr. Winkle, senior, over his own, and making several other humorous 
experiments upon the furniture, all of which afforded Mr. Pickwick unspeak- 
able honor and agony, and yielded Mr. Bob Sawyer proportionate delight. 

At length the door opened, and a little old gentleman in a snuff-coloured suit, 
with a head and face the precise counterpart of those belonging to Mr. Winkle, 
junior, excepting that he was rather bald, trotted into the room with Mr. Pick- 
wick’s card in one hand, and a silver candlestick in the other. 

“ Mr. Pickwick, sir, how do you do .?” said Winkle the elder, putting down the 
candlestick and proffering his hand. “ Hope I see you well, sir. Glad to see you. 
Be seated, Mr. Pickwick, I beg sir. This gentleman is — ” 

“My friend, Mr. Sawyer,” intei-posed Mr. Pickwick, “your son’s friend.” 

“ Oh,” said Mr. Winlde the elder, looking rather grimly at Bob. “ I hope 
you are are well, sir.” 

“ Right as a trivet, sir,” replied Bob Saw^^er. 

« This other gentleman,” cried Mr. Pickwick, “ is, as you will see, when 


The Pickwick Club. 


440 

you have read the letter with which I am entrusted, a very near relative, or I 
should rather say a very particular friend of your son’s. His name is AUen,” 

“ That gentleman inquired Mr. Winkle, pointing with the card to\yardsBen 
Allen, who had fallen asleep in an attitude which lelt nothing of him visible but 
his spine and his coat collar. 

Mr. Pickwick was on the point of replying to the question, and reciting Mr. 
Benjamin Allen’s name and honourable distinctions at full length, when the 
sprightly Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a view of rousing his friend to a sense of his situa- 
tion, inflicted a startling pinch upon the fleshy part of his arm, which caused him 
to jump up with a shriek. Suddenly aware that he was in the presence of a 
stranger, Mr. Ben Allen advanced and, shaking Mr. Winkle most affectionately 
by both hands for about five minutes, murmured, in some half-inteDigible frag- 
ments of sentences, the great delight he felt in seeing him, and a hospitable 
inquiry whether he felt disposed to take anything after his walk, or would prefer 
waiting “ till dinner-time which done, he sat down and gazed about him with 
a petrified stare, as if he had not the remotest idea where he was, which indeed he 
had not. 

All this was most embarrassing to Mr. Pickwick, the more especially as Mr. 
Winkle, senior, evinced palpable astonishment at the eccentric — not to say extra- 
ordinary-behaviour of his two companions. To bring the matter to an issue at 
once, he drew a letter from his pocket, and presenting it to Mr. Winkle, senior, 
said : 

“ This letter, sir, is from your son. You will see, by its contents, that on your 
favourable and fatherly consideration of it, depend his future happiness and welfare. 
Will you oblige me by giving it the calmest and coolest perusal, and by discussing 
the subject afterwards, with me, in the tone and spirit in which alone it ought to 
be discussed 1 You may judge of the importance of your decision to your son, 
and his intense anxiety upon the subject, ’oy my waiting upon you, without any 
previous warning, at so late an hour ; and,” added Mr. Pickwick, glancing slightly 
at his two companions, “and under such unfavourable circumstances.” 

With this prelude, Mr. Pickwick placed four closely written sides of extra super- 
fine wire-wove penitence in the hands of the as ounded Mr. Winkle, senior. Then 
reseating himself in his chair, he watched his looks and manner : anxiously, it is 
true, but with the open front of a gentleman who feels he has taken no part which 
he need excuse or palliate. 

The old wharfinger turned the letter over; looked at the front, back, and sides ; 
made a microscopic examination of the fat little boy on the seal ; raised his eyes 
to Mr. Pickwick’s face ; and then, seating himseb on the high stool, and drawing 
the lamp closer to him, broke the wax, unfolded the epistle, and lifting it to the 
he light, prepared to read. 

Just at this moment, Mr. Bob Sawder, whose wit had lain dormant for some 
minutes, placed his hands upon his knees, and made a face after the portraits of 
the late Mr. Grimaldi, as clown. It so happened that Mr. Winkle, senior, instead 
of being deeply engaged in reading the letter, as Mr. Bob Sawyer thought, chanced 
to be lookiirg over the top of it at no less a person than Mr. Bob Sawyer himself ; 
rightly conjecturing that the face aforesaid was made in ridicule and derision 
of his own person, he fixed his eyes on Bob with such expressive sternness, that 
the late Mr. Grimaldi’s lineaments gradually resolved themselves into a very fine 
expression of humility and confusion. 

“ Did you speak, sir inquired Mr. Winkle, senior, after an awful silence. 

** No, sir,” replied Bob, with no remains of the clown about him, save and 
except the extreme redness of his cheeks. 

“You are sure you did not, sir ?” said Mr. Winlcle, senior. 


IVho declines to commit Himself. 


44 * 


** Oh dear yes, sir, quite,” replied Bob. 

“I thought you did, sir,” rejoined the old gentleman, with indignant emphasis. 
“Perhaps you looked at me, sir ?” 

“ Oh, no ! sir, not at all,” replied Bob, with extreme civility. 

“I am very glad to hear it, sir,” said Mr. Winkle, senior. Having frowned 
upon the abashed Bob with gi-eat magnificence, the old gentleman again brought 
the letter to the light, and began to read it seriously. 

Mr. Pickwick eyed him intently as he turned from the bottom line of the first 
page to the top line of the second, and from the bottom of the second to the top 
of the third, and from the bottom of the third to the top of the fourth ; but not the 
slightest alteration of countenance afforded a clue to the feelings with which he 
received the announcement of his son’s marriage, which Mr. Pickwick knew was 
in the very first half-dozen lines. 

He read the letter to the last word ; folded it again with all the carefulness and 
precision of a man of business ; and, just when Mr. Pickwick expected some great 
outbreak of feeling, dipped a pen in the inkstand, and said as quietly as if he were 
speaking on the most ordinary counting-house topic : 

“What is Nathaniel’s address, Mr. Pickwick.?” 

“The George and Vulture, at present,” replied that gentleman. 

“ George and Vulture. Where is that .?” 

“George Yard, Lombard Street.” 

“In the City ?” 

“Yes.” 

The old gentleman methodically indo’ sed the address on the back of the letter ; 
and then, placing it in the desk, which he locked, said as he got off the stool and 
put the bunch of keys in his pocket : 

“I suppose there is nothing else which need detain us, Mr. Pickwick .?” 

“ Nothing else, my dear sir !” observed that warm-hearted person in indignant 
amazement. “Nothing else ! Have you no opinion to express on this momen- 
tous event in our young fi iend’s life .? No assurance to convey to him, through 
me, of the continuance of your affection and protection .? Nothing to say which 
will cheer and sustain him, and the anxious girl who looks to him for comfort and 
support ? My dear sir, consider.” 

“ I will consider,” replied the old gentleman. “ I have nothing to say just now. 
I am a man of business, Mr. Pickwick. I never commit myself hastily in any 
aft'air, and from what I see of this, I by no means like the appearance of it. A 
thousand pounds is not much, Mr. Pickwick.” 

“ You ’re very right, sir,” interposed Ben Allen, just awake enough to know 
that he had spent kis thousand pounds without the smallest difficulty. “ You ’re 
an intelligent man. Bob, he’s a very knowing fellow this.” 

“ I am very happy to find that jyou do me the justice to make the admission, 
sir,” said Mr. Winkle, senior, looking contemptuously at Ben Allen, who was 
shaking his head profoundly. “ The fact is, Mr. Pickwick, that when I gave my 
son a roving license for a year or so, to see something of men and manners (which 
he has done under your auspices), so that he might not enter into life a mere 
boarding-school milk-sop to be gulled by everybody, I never bargained for this. 
He knows that, very well, so if I withdraw my countenance from him on this 
account, he has no call to be surprised. He shall hear from me, Mr. Pickwick. 
Good night, sir. Margaret, open the door.” 

All this time. Bob Sawj-er had been nudging Mr. Ben Allen to say soinething 
on the right side ; Ben accordingly now burst, without the slightest preliminary 
notice, into a brief but impassioned piece of eloquence. 

“ Sir, ’’ said Mr. Ben Allen, staring at the old gentleman, out ol a pair of very 


442 


The Picktuick Club. 


dim and lanjjuid eyes, and working his right arm vehemently up and down, “you 
— you ought to be ash med of yourself.” 

“ As the lady’s brother, of course you are an excellent judge of the question,” 
retorted Mr. Winkle, senior. “There; that’s enough. Pray say no more, Mr. 
Pickwick. Good night, gentlemen ! ” 

With these words the old gentleman took up the candlestick, and opening the 
room d(jor, politely motioned towards the passage. 

“ You will regret this, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, setting his teeth close together 
to keep down his choler ; for he felt how important the effect might prove to his 
young friend. 

“ I am at present of a different opinion,” calmly replied Mr. Winkle, senior. 

Once again, gentlemen, I wish you a good night.” 

Mr. Pickwick walked, with angry strides, into the street. Mr, Bob Sawye"', 
completely quelled by the decision of the old gentleman’s manner, took the same 
course. Mr. Ben Allen’s hat rolled down the steps immediately afterwards, and 
Mr. Ben Allen’s body followed it directly. The whole party went silent and 
supperless to bed ; and Mr. Pickwick thought, just before he fell asleep, that 
if he had known Mr. Winkle, senior, had been quite so much of a man of busi- 
ness, it was extiemely probable he might never have waited upon him, on such an 
errand. 


CHAPTER LI. 

IN WHICH MR. PICKWICK ENCOUNTERS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE. TO WHICH 
FORTUNATE CIRCUMSTANCE THE READER IS MAINLY INDEBTED FOR 
MATTER OF THRILLING INTEREST HEREIN SET DOWN, CONCERNING TWO 
GREAT PUBLIC MEN OF MIGHT AND POWER. 

The morning which broke upon Mr. Pickwick’s sight, at eight o’clock, was not 
at all calculated to elevate his spirits, or to lessen the depression which the un- 
looked-for result of his embassy inspired. The sky was dark and gloomy, the air 
was damp and raw, the streets were wet and sloppy. The smoke hung sluggishly 
above the chimney-tops as if it lacked the courage to rise, and the rain came slowly 
and doggedly down, as if it had not even the spirit to pour. A game-cock in the 
stable-yard, deprived of every spark of his accustomed animation, balanced him- 
self dismally on one leg in a corner ; a donkey, moping with drooping head under 
the nanow roof of an outhouse, appeared from his meditative and miserable coun- 
tenance to be contemplating suicide. In the street, umbrellas were the only 
things to be seen, and the clicking of pattens and splashing of rain-drops, were 
the only sounds to be heard. 

The breakfast was intenupted by very little conversation ; even Mr. Bob 
Sawyer felt the influence of the weather, and the previous day’s excitement. In 
his own expressive language he was “floored.” So was Mr. Ben Allen. So was 
Mr. Pickwick. 

In protracted expectation of the weather clearing up, the last evening paper 
from London was read and re-read with an intensity of interest only known in 
cases of extreme destitution ; every inch of the carpet was walked over, with 
siroilar perseverance ; the windows were looked out of, often enough to jusi'ify 
the imposition of an additional duty upon them ; all kinds of topics of conversa- 
toD were started, and failed ; and at length Mr. Pickwick, when noon had arrhed, 


Concerning Postboys and Donkeys. 443 

without a change for the better, rang the bell resolutely and ordered out the 

chaise. 

Although the roads were miry, and the drizzling rain came down harder than it 
had done yet, and although the mud and wet splashed in at the open windows of 
the carriage to such an extent that the discomfort was almost as great to the pair 
of insides as to the pair of outsides, still there was something in the motion, and 
the sense of being up and doing, which was so infinitely superior to being pent 
in a dull room, looking at the dull rain dripping into a dull street, tliat they all 
agreed, on starting, that the change w^s a great improvement, and wondered how 
they could possibly have delayed making it, as long as they had done. 

W hen they stopped to change at Coventry, the steam ascended from the horses 
in such clouds as wholly to obscure the hostler, whose voice was however heard 
to declare from the mist, that he expected the first Gold Medal from the Humane 
Society on their next distribution of rewards, for taking the postboy’s hat off ; the 
water descending from the brim of which, the invisible gentleman declared must 
inevitably have drowned him (the postboy), but for his great presence of mind in 
tearing it promptly from his head, and drying the gasping man’s countenance 
with a wisp of stra'w . 

“ This is pleasant,” said Bob Sawyer, turning up his coat collar, and pulling 
the shawl over his mouth to concentrate the fumes of a* glass of brandy just swal- 
lowed. 

“ Wery,” replied Sam, composedly. 

“ You don’t seem to mind it,” observed Bob. 

“ Vy, I don’t exactly see no good my mindin’ on it ’ud do, sir,” replied Sam. 

“That’s an unanswerable reason, anyhow,” said Bob. 

“ Yes, sir,” rejoined Mr. Weller. “ Wotever is, is right, as the young noble- 
man sveetly remarked wen they put him down in the pension list ’cos his 
mother’s uncle’s vife’s grandfather vunce lit the king’s pipe vith a portable 
tinder-box.” 

“ Not a bad notion that, Sam,” said Mr. Bob Saw>'er approvingly. 

“ Just wot the young nobleman said ev’ry quarter-day arterwards for the rest of 
his life,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ Wos you ever called in,” inquired Sam, glancing at the driver, after a short 
silence, and lowering his voice to a mysterious whisper : “ wos you ever called in, 
ven you wos ’prentice to a sawbones, to wisit a postboy 

“ I don’t remember that I ever was,” replied Bob Sawyer. 

“ You never see a postboy in that ’ere hospital as you walked {as they says o’ 
the ghosts), did you ?” demanded Sam. 

“ No,” replied Bob Sawyer. “I don’t think I ever did.” 

“ Never know’d a churchyard were there wos a postboy’s tombstone, or see a 
dead postboy, did you inquired Sam, pursuing his catechism. 

“ No,” rejoined Bob, “ I never did.” 

“No!” rejoined Sam, triumphantly. “Nor never vill ; and there’s another 
thing that no man never see, and that’s a dead donkey. No man never see a dead 
donkey, ’cept the gen’l’m’n m the black silk smalls as know’d the young ’ooman 
as kep a goat ; and that wos a French donkey, so wery hkely he warn’t wun o’ 
the reg’lar breed.” 

“ Well, what has that got to do with the postboys ?” asked Bob Sawyer. 

“ This here,” replied Sam. “Without goin’ so far as to as-sert, as some wery 
sensible people do, that postboys and donkeys is both immortal, wot I say is this ; 
that wenever they feels theirselves gettin’ stiff and past their work, they just rides 
off together, wnr postboy to a pair in the usual way; wot becomes on ’em nobo ly 
knows, but it’s wery probable as they starts avay to take tlieir pleasure in some 


444 


The Pickwick Club, 


other vorld, for there ain’t a man alive as ever see, either a donkey or a postboy, 
a takin’ his pleasure in this ! ” 

Expatiating upon this learned and remarkable theory, and citing many curious 
statistical and other facts in its support, Sam Weller beguiled the time until they 
reached Dunchurch, where a dry postboy and fresh horses were procured ; the 
next stage was Daventry, and the next Towcester ; and at the end of each stage it 
rained harder than it had done at the beginning. 

“ I say,” remonstrated Bob Sawyer, looking in at the coach window, as they 
pulled up before the door of the Saracen’s Head, Towcester, “this won’t do, you 
know.” 

“ Bless me !” said Mr. Pickwick, just awaking from a nap, “ I ’m afraid you ’re 
wet.” 

“ Oh you are, are you.?” returned Bob. “Yes, I am, a little that way. Un- 
comfortably damp, perhaps.” 

Bob did look dampish, inasmuch as the rain was streaming from his neck, 
elbows, cuffs, skirts, and knees ; and his whole apparel shone so with the wet, 
that it might have been mistaken for a full suit of prepared oilskin. 

“I am rather wet,” said Bob, giving himself a shake, and casting a little 
hydraulic shower around, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged from the 


water. 

“ I think it’s quite imposible to go on to-night,” interposed Ben. 

“ Out of the question, sir,” remarked Sam Weller, coming to assist in the con- 
ference ; “ it ’s a cruelty to animals, sir, to ask ’em to do it. There ’s beds here, 
sir,” said Sam, addressing his master, “ everything clean and comfortable. Wery 
good little dinner, sir, they can get ready in half an hour — pair of fowls, sir, and a 
weal cutlet ; French beans, ’taturs, tart, and tidiness. You ’d better stop vere you 
\re, sir, iff might recommend. Take adwice, sir, as the doctor said.” 

The host of the Saracen’s Head opportunely appeared at this moment, to con- 
firm Mr. Weller’s statement relative to the accommodations of the establishment, 
and to back his entreaties with a variety of dismal conjectures regarding the state 
of the roads, the doubt of fresh horses being to be had at the next stage, the dead 
certainty of its raining all night, the equally mortal certainty of its clearing up in 
the morning, and other topics of inducement familiar to innkeepers. 

“ WeU,” said Mr. Pickwick; “ but I must send a letter to London by some con- 
veyance, so that it may be delivered the very first thing in the morning, or I must 
go forward at all hazards.” 

The landlord smiled his delight. Nothing could be easier than for the gentle- 
man to inclose a letter in a sheet of brown paper, and send it on, either by the 
mail or the night coach from Birmingham. If the gentleman were particularly 
anxious to have it left as soon as possible, he might write outside, “ To be delivered 
immediately,” which was sure to be attended to ; or “ pay the bearer half-a-crown 
extra for instant delivery,” which was surer still. 

“ Very well,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ then we will stop here.” 

“ Lights in the Sun, John ; make up the fire ; the gentlemen are wet !” cried 
jhe landlord. “This way, gentlemen ; don’t trouble yourselves about the postboy 
now, sir. I ’ll send him to you when you ring for him, sir. Now, John, the candles.” 

The candles were brought, the fire was stirred up, and a fresh log of wood 
thrown on. In ten minute’s time, a waiter was laying the cloth for dinner, the 
curtains were drawn, the fire was blazing brightly, and everything looked (as 
everything always does, in all decent English inns) as if the travellers had been 
expected, and their comforts prepared, for days beforehand. 

Mr. Pickwick sat down at a side table, and hastily indited a note to Mr. 
Winkle, merely infrrming him that he was detained by stress of weather, but 


Mr. Pott in the Buff' Camp. 


445 


would certainly be in London next day ; until when he deferred any account of 
his proceedings. This note was hastily made into a parcel, and despatched to the 
bar per Mr. Samuel Weller. 

Sam left it with the laadlady, and was returning to pull his master’s boots off, 
after drying himself by the kitchen fire, when, glancing casually through a half- 
opened door, he was arrested by the sight of a gentleman with a sandy head w’ho 
had a large bundle of newspapers lying on the table before him, and was perusing 
the leading ailicle of one with a settled sneer which curled up his nose and all his 
other features into a majestic expression of haughty contempt. 

“ Hallo ! ” said Sam, “ I ought to know that ’ere head and them features ; the 
eye-glass, too, and the broad-brimmed tile ! Eatansvill to vit, or I ’m a Roman.” 

^ Sam was taken with a troublesome cough, at once, for the purpose of attracting 
the gentleman’s attention ; the gentleman starting at the sound, raised his head 
and his eye-glass, and disclosed to view the profound and thoughtful features of 
Mr. Pott, of the Eatanswill Gazette. 

“ Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” said Sam, advancing with a bow, “ my master’s 
here, Mr. Pott.” 

“ Hush, hush !” cried Pott, drawing Sam into the room, and closing the door, 
with a countenance of mysterious dread and apprehension. 

“ Wot’s the matter, sir inquired Sam, looking vacantly about him. 

“ Not a whisper of my name,” replied Pott ; “ this is a buff neighbourhood. If 
the excited and irritable populace knew I was here, I should be torn to pieces.” 

“ No ! Vould you, sir inquired Sam. 

“ I should be the victim of their fury,” replied Pott. “ Now, young man, what 
of your master 

“ He ’s a stopping here to-night on his vay to town, vith a couple of friends,” 
replied Sam. 

“ Is Mr. Winkle one of them inquired Pott, with a slight frown. 

“ No, sir. Mr. Vinkle stops at home now,” rejoined Sam. “ He ’s married.” 

“Man-ied!” exclaimed Pott, with frightful vehemence. He stopped, smiled 
darkly, and added, in a low, vindictive tone : “ It selves him right !” 

Having given vent to this cruel ebullition of deadly malice and cold-blooded 
triumph over a fallen enemy, Mr. Pott inquired whether Mr. Pickwick’s friends 
were “blue Receiving a most satisfactory answer in the affirmative from Sam, 
who knew as much about the matter as Pott himself, he consented to accompany 
him to Mr. Pickwick’s room, where a hearty welcome awaited him. An agree- 
ment to club dinners together was at once made and ratilied. 

“ And how are matters going on in Eatanswill inquired Mr. Pickwick, w'hen 
Pott had taken a seat near the fire, and the whole party had ^pt their wet boots 
off', and diy slippers on. “ Is the Independent still in being ” 

“The Independent, sir, ’’replied Pott, “is still dragging on a wretched and linger- 
ing career. Abhorred and despised by even the few who are cognizant ot its 
miserable and disgraceful existence ; stifled by the very filth it so profusely scatters ; 
rendered deaf and blind by the exhalations of its own slime ; the obscene journal, 
happily unconscious of its degraded state, is rapidly sinking beneath that treacherous 
mud which, while it seems to give it a firm standing with the low and debased 
classes of society, is nevertheless, rising above its detested head, and will speedily 

engulf it for ever.” . ^ i i i. i * 

Having delivered this manifesto (which formed a portion of his last week 9 
leader) with vehement articulation, the editor paused to take breath, and looked 
majestically at Bob Sawyer. 

“ You are a young man, sir,” said Pott, 

Mr. Bob Sawyer nodded. 


The Pickwick Ctu}. 


446 

“ So are you, sir,” said Pott, addressing Mr. Ben Allen. 

Ben admitted the soft impeachment. 

“ And are both deeply imbued with those blue principles, which, so long as 1 
live, I have pledged myself to the people of these kingdoms to support and to 
maintain ?” suggested Pott. 

“ Why, I don’t exactly know about that,” replied Bob Sawyer. “I am — ” 

“ Not buff, Mr. Pickwick,” interrupted Pott, drawing back his chair, “ your 
friend is not buff, sir ?” 

“ No, no,” rejoined Bob, “ I ’m a kind of plaid at present ; a compound of all 
sorts of colours.” 

“ A waverer,” said Pott, solemnly, “ a waverer. I should like to show you a 
series of eight articles, sir, that have appeared in the Eatanswill Gazette. I think 
I may venture to say that you would not be long in establishing your opinions on 
a firm and solid blue basis, sir.” 

“ I dare say I should turn very blue, long before I got to the end of them,” 
responded Bob. 

Mr. Pott looked dubiously at Bob Sawyer for some seconds, and, turning tt 
Mr. Pickwick, said : 

“ You have seen the literary articles which have appeared at intervals in the 
Eatanswill Gazette in the course of the last three months, and which have excited 
such general — I may say such universal — attention and admiration } ” 

“ Why,” replied Mr. Pickwick, slightly embarrassed by the question, “ the fact 
is, I have been so much engaged in other ways, that I really have not had an 
opportunity of perusing them.” 

“You should do so, sir,” said Pott, with a severe countenance. 

“ I will,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ They appeared in the form ©f a copious review of a work on Chinese meta- 
ph)rsics, sir,” said Pott. 

“ Oh,” observed Mr. Pickwick ; “ from your pen, I hope } ” 

“ From the pen of my critic, sir,” rejoined Pott with dignity. 

“ An abstruse subject I should conceive,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Very, sir,” responded Pott, looking intensely sage. “ He cra?nmed for it, to 
use a technical but expressive term ; he read up for the subject, at my desire, in 
the Encyctopcedia BritannicaE 

“Indeed!” said Mr. Pickwick; “I was not aware that that valuable work 
contained any infonnation respecting Chinese metaphysics.” 

“ He read, sir,” rejoined Pott, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s knee, and 
looking round with a smile of intellectual superiority, “ he read for metaphysics 
under the letter M, and for China under the letter C, and combined his informa- 
tion, sir } ” 

Mr. Pott’s features assumed so much additional grandeur at the recollection of 
the power and research displayed in the learned effusions in question, that some 
minutes elapsed before Mr. Pickwick felt emboldened to renew the conversation ; 
at length, as the Editor’s countenance gradually relaxed into its customary expres- 
sion of moral supremacy, he ventured to resume the discourse by asking : 

“ Is it fair to inquire what great object has brought you so far from home ? ” 

“ That object which actuates and animates me in all my gigantic labours, sir,” 
replied Pott, with a calm smile ; “ my country’s good.” 

“I supposed it was some public mission,” observed Mr. Pickwick. 

“Yes, sir,” resumed Pott, “it is.” Here, bending towards Mr. f*ickwick, he 
whispered in a deep hollow voice, “ A buff ball, sir, will take place in Birmingham 
to-morrow evening.” 

“ God bless me 1 ” exclaimed Mr Pickwick, 


A Powerful Article, 


447 


“ Yes, sir, and supper,” added Pott. 

“You don’t say so ! ” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick. 

Pott uoddcd portentously. 

Now, although Mr. Pickwick feigned to stand aghast at this disclosure, he was 
so little versed in local politics that he was unable to form an adequate compre- 
hension of the importance of the dire conspiracy it reterred to ; observing which, 
Mr. Pott, drawing forth the last number of the Eatanswill Gazette, and referring 
t(j the same, delivered himself cf the following paragraph : 

“ Hole-and-Corner Puffery. 

“A reptile contemporary has recently sweltered forth his black venom in the 
vain and hopeless attempt of sullying the fair, name of our distinguished and 
excellent representative, the Honourable Mr. Slumkey — that Slumkey whom we, 
long before he gained his present noble and exalted position, predicted would one 
day be, as he now is, at once his countiy'’s brightest honour, and her proudest 
boast ; alike her bold defender and her honest pride — our reptile contemporary, 
we say, has made himself merry, at the expense of a superbly embossed plated 
coal-scuttle, which has been presented to that glorious man by his enraptured 
constituents, and towards the purchase of which, the nameless wretch insinuates, 
the Honourable Mr. Slumkey himself contributed, through a confidential friend of 
his butler’s, more than three-fourths of the whole sum subscribed. Why, does 
not the crawling creature see, that even if this be the fact, the Honourable Mr. 
Slumkey only appears in a still more amiable and radiant light than before, if that 
be possible } Does not even his obtuseness perceive that this amiable and touching 
desire to carry out the wishes of the constituent body, must for ever endear him to 
the hearts and souls of such of his fellow townsmen as are not worse than swine ; 
or, in other words, who are not as debased as our contemporary himself ? But 
such is the wretched trickery of hole-and-corner Buffery ! These are not its only 
artifices. Treason is abroad. We boldly state, now that we are goaded to the 
disclosure, and we throw ourselves on the country and its constables for protection 
- — we boldly state that secret preparations are at this moment in progress for a Buff 
ball ; which is to be held in a Buff town, in the very heart and centre of a Buff 
population ; which is to be conducted by a Buff master of the ceremonies ; whicli 
is to be attended by four ultra Buff members of parliament, and the admission to 
W'hich, is to be by Buff tickets ! Does our fiendish contemporary wince } Let 
him writhe, in impotent malice, as we pen the words. We will be there.” 

“There, sir,” said Pott, folding up the paper quite exhausted, “that is the 
state of the case ! ” 

The landlord and waiter entering at the moment with dinner, caused Mr. Pott 
to lay his finger on his lips, in token that he considered his life in Mr. Pickwiclris 
hands, and depended on his secrecy. Messrs. Bob Sawyer and Benjamin Allen, 
who had irreverently fallen asleep during the reading of the quotation from the 
Eatanswill Gazette, and the discussion which followed it, were roused by the mere 
whispering of the talisnianic word “ Dinner ” in their ears : and to dinner they 
went with good digestion waiting on appetite, and health on both, and a waiter on 
all tliree. 

In the course of the dinner and the sitting which succeeded it, Mr. Pott 
descending, for a few moments, to domestic topics, informed Mr. Pickwick that 
the air of Eatanswill not agreeing with his lady, she was then engaged in making 
a tour of different fashionable watering-places with a view to the recovery ot her 
wonted health and spirits ; this was a delicate veiling of the fact that Mrs. Pott, 
acting upon her often repeated threat of separation, had, in virtue of an anange- 
ment negociated by her brother, the Lieutenant, and concluded by Mr. Pott, 


448 


The Pickwick Club, 


permanently retired with the faithful body-guard upon one moiety or half-part of 
the annual income and profits arising from the editorship and sale of the Eatan- 
swill Gazette. 

While the gi'eat Mr. Pott was dwelling upon this and other matters, enlivening 
the conversation from time to time with various extracts from his own lucubrations, 
a stem stranger, calling from the window of a stage-coach, outward bound, which 
halted at the inn to deliver packages, requested to know, whether, if he stopped 
short on his journey and remained there for the night, he could be fmnished with 
the necessary accommodation of a bed and bedstead. 

“ Certainly, sir,” replied the landlord. 

“ I can, can I ? ” inquired the stranger, who seemed habitually suspicious in 
look and manner. 

“No doubt of it, sir,” replied the landlord. 

“ Good,” said the stranger. “ Coachman, I get do^vn here. Guard, my 
carpet-bag!” 

Bidding the other passengers good night, in a rather snappish manner, the 
stranger alighted. He was a shortish gentleman, with very stiff black hair cut 
in the porcupine or blacking-brush style, and standing stiff and straight ail over 
his head ; his aspect was pompous and threatening ; his manner was peremptory ; 
his eyes were shai p and restless ; and his whole bearing bespoke a feeling of 
great confidence in himself, and a consciousness of immeasurable superiority 
over all other people. 

This gentleman was shown into the room originally assigned to the patriotic 
Mr. Pott ; and the waiter remarked, in dumb astonishment at the singular coin- 
cidence, that he had no sooner lighted the candles than the gentleman, diving 
into his hat, drew forth a newspaper, and began to read it with the very same 
expression of indignant scorn, which, upon the majestic features of Pott, had 
paral5'sed his energies an hour before. The man observed too, that whereas Mr. 
Pott’s scorn had been roused by a newspaper headed The Eatanswill Independent, 
this gentleman’s withering contempt was awakened by a newspaper entitled The 
Eatanswill Gazette. 

“ Send the landlord,” said the stranger. 

“ Yes, sir,” rejoined the w'aiter. 

The landlord was sent, and came. 

“ Are you the landlord ?” inquired the gentleman. 

“ I am, sir,” replied the landlord. 

“ Do you know me ?” demanded the gentleman. 

“ I have not that pleasure, sir,” rejoined the landlord. 

“ My name is Slurk,” said the gentleman. 

The landlord slightly inclined his head. 

“ Slurk, sir,” repeated the gentleman, haughtily. “ Do you know me now, man ?” 

The landlord scratched his head, looked at the ceiling, and at the stranger, and 
smiled feebly. 

“ Do you know me, man ?” inquired the stranger, angrily. 

The landlord made a strong effort, and at length replied: “Well, sir, I do not 
know you.” 

“ Great Heaven 1” said the stranger, dashing his clenched fist upon the table. 
“And this is popularity I” 

The landlord took a step or two towards the door ; the stranger fixing his eyes 
upon him, resumed. 

“This,” said the stranger, “this is gratitude for years of labour and study in 
behalf of the masses. I alight wet and weary; no enthusiastic crowds press 
forward to greet their champion; the church-bells are silent; the very name 


449 


Discovery of a Reptile, 

elicits no responsive feeling in their torpid bosoms. It is enough,” said the 
agitated Mr. Slurk, pacing to and fro, “ to curdle the ink in one’s pen, and induce 
one to abandon their cause for ever.” 

“ Did you say brandy and water, sir.?” said the landlord, venturing a hint. 

“ Rum,” said Mr. Slurk, turning fiercely upon him. “ Have you got a fire 
anywhere .?” 

“ We .‘an light one directly, sir,” said the landlord. 

“ Which will throw out no heat until it is bed-time,” interrupted Mr. Slurk. 
“Is there anybody in the kitchen ?” 

Not a soul. There was a beautiful fire. Everybody had gone, and the house 
door was closed for the night. 

“ I will drink my rum and water,” said Mr. Slurk, “ by the kitchen fire.” So, 
gathering up his hat and newspaper, he stalked solemnly behind the landlord to 
that humble apartment, and throwing himself on a settle by the fireside, resumed 
his countenance of scorn, and began to read and drink in silent dignity. 

Now, some demon of discord, flying over the Saracen’s Head at that moment, 
on casting down his eyes in mere idle curiosity, happened to behold Slurk 
e.stablished comfortably by the kitchen fire, and Pott slightly elevated with 
wine in another room ; upon which the malicious demon, darting down into 
tlie last-mentioned apartment with inconceivable rapidity, passed at once into the 
head of Mr. Bob Sawyer, and prompted him for his (the demoa’s) own evil 
purposes to speak as follows : 

“ 1 say, we’ve let the fire out. It’s uncommonly cold after the rain, isn’t it ?” 

“ It really is,” replied Mr. Pickwick, shivering. 

“ It wouldn’t be a bad notion to have a cigar by the kitchen fire, would it .?” 
said Bob Sawyer, still prompted by the demon aforesaid. 

“ It would be particularly comfortable, /think,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ Mr. 
Pott, what do you say .?” 

Mr. Pott yielded a ready assent ; and all four travellers, each with his glass in 
his hand, at once betook themselves to the kitchen, with Sam Weller heading the 
procession to show them the way. 

The stranger was still reading ; he looked up and started. Mr. Pott started. 

“ What’s the matter .?” whispered Mr. Pickwick. 

“ That reptile !” replied Pott. 

“What reptile.?” said Mr. Pickwick, looking about him for fear he should 
tread on some overgrown black beetle, or dropsical spider. 

“That reptile,” whispered Pott, catching Mr. Pickwick by the arm, and 
pointing towards the stranger. “ That reptile Slurk, of the Independent ! ” 

“ Perhaps we had better retire,” whispered Mr. Pickwick. 

“Never, sir,” rejoined Pott, pot-valiant in a double sense, “never.” With 
these words, Mr. Pott took up his position on an opposite settle, and selecting 
one from a little bundle of newspapers, began to read against his enemy. 

Mr. Pott, of course, read the Independent, and Mr. Slurk, of course, read the 
trazette ; and each gentleman audibly expressed his contempt of the other’s 
compositions by bitter laughs and sarcastic sniffs; whence they proceeded to 
more open expressions of opinion, such as “ absurd,” “wretched,” “atrocity,” 
“humbug,” “knavery,” “dirt,” “filth,” “slime,” “ditch-water,” and other 

critical remarks of the like nature. ,,,,,,, t 

Both Mr. Bob Sawyer and Mr. Ben Allen had beheld these s>'mptoms of 
rivalry and hatred, with a degree of delight which imparted great additional 
relish to the cigars at which they were puffing most vigorously. The niomem 
they began to flag the mischievous Mr. Bob Sawyer, addressing Slurk with great 
politeness, said : 


450 


The Pickwick Club» 


“ Will you allow ms to look at your paper, sir, when you have quite done 
with it !” 

“You wall find very little to repay you for 5 'our trouble in this contemptible 
thing, sir,” replied Slurk, bestowdng a Satanic howm on Pott. 

“You shall have this presently,” said Pott, looking up, pale with -rage, and 
quivering in his speech, from the same cause. “Hal ha! you will be amused 
with this fellow's audacity.” 

Terrific emphasis was laid upon this “thing ” and “fellow;” and the faces 
both editors began to glow wdth defiance. 

“ The ribaldry of this miserable man is despicably disgusting,” said 1‘ott, 
pretending to address Bob Sawyer, and scowling upon Slurk. 

Heie, Mr. Slurk laughed very heartily, and folding up the paper so as to get at 
a fresh column conveniently, said, that the blockhead really amused him, 

“ What an impudent blunderer this fellow is,” said Pott, tumhig from pink to 
crimson. 

“Did you ever read any of this man’s foolery, sir?” inquired Slurk, o^Bob 
Sawyer. 

“Never,” replied Bob ; “ is it very bad ?” 

“Oh, shocking I shocking!” rejoined Slurk. 

“Really! Dear me, this is too atrocious!” exclaimed Pott, at this juncture ; 
still feigning to be absorbed in his reading. 

“ If you can wade through a few sentences of malice, meanness, falsehood, 
perjury, treachery, and cant,” said Slurk, handing the paper to Bob, “ you wall, 
perhaps, be somewhat repaid by a laugh at the style of this ungrammatical 
twaddler.” 

“ What’s that you said, sir ?” inquired Mr. Pott, looking up, trembling aU over 
with passion. 

“What’s that to you, sir ?” replied Slurk. 

“ Ungrammatical twaddler, was it, sir ?” said Pott. 

“ Yes, sir, it was,” replied Slurk ; “ and blue bore, sir, if you like that better ; 
a ! ha !” 

Mr. Pott retorted not a word to this jocose insult, but deliberately folded up his 
copy of the Independent, flattened it carefully down, crushed it beneath his boot, 
spat upon it with great ceremony, and flung it into the fire. 

“There, sir,” said Pott, retreating from the stove, “ and that’s the way I would 
serve the viper who produces it, if I were not, fortunately for him, restrained by 
the laws of my country.” 

“ Seiwe him so, sir!” cried Slurk, starting up. “Those laws shall never be 
appealed to by him, sir, in such a case. Serve him so, sir !” 

“ Hear ! hear !” said Bob Sa^v 5 'er. 

“Nothing can be fairer,” observed Mr. Ben Allen. 

“ Serve him so, sir !” reiterated Slurk, in a loud voice. 

Mr. Pott darted a look of contempt, which might have withered an anchor. 

“ Sers'e him so, sir !” reiterated Slurk, in a louder voice than before. 

“ I will not, sir,” rejoined Pott. 

“Oh, you w'on’t, w^on’t you, sir?” said Mr. Slurk, in a taunting manner; 
“ you hear this, gentlemen ! He W'on’t ; not that he ’s afraid ; oh, no ! he won't. 
Ha! ha!” 

‘‘ I consider you, sir,” said Mr. Pott, moved by this sarcasm, “ I consider you 
a viper. I look upon you, sir, as a man who has placed himself beyond the p.ale 
of society, by his most audacious, disgraceful, and abominable public conduct. 1 
view you, sir, personally and politically, in no other hght tlian as a most unparal- 
leled and unmitigated viper.” 


Assault and Battery. i 

Tlie indignant Independent did not wait to hear the end of this personal denun- 
ciation ; for, catching up his carpet-bag which was well stuffed with moveables, 
he swimg it in the air as Pott turned away, and, letting it fall with a circular 
sweep on his head, just at that particular angle of the bag where a good thick 
hair-brush happened to be packed, caused a sharp crash to be heard throughout 
the kitchen, and brought him at once to the giound. 

“ Gentlemen,” cried Mr. Pickwick, as Pott started up and seized the fire-shovel, 
“ genilemen ! Consider, for Heaven’s sake — help — Sam — here — pray, gentlemen 
• — interfere, somebody.” 

Uttering these incoherent exclamations, Mr. Pickwick rushed between the 
infuriated combatants just in time to receive the carpet-bag on one side of his body, 
and the fire-shovel on the other. Whether the representatives of the public 
feeling of Eatanswill were blinded by animosity, or (being both acute reasoners) 
saw the advantage of having a third party between them to bear all the blows, 
certain it is that they paid not the slightest attention to Mr. Pickwick, but defying 
each other with great spirit plied the carpet-bag and the fire-shovel most fear- 
lessly. Mr. Pickwick would unquestionably have suffered severely for his 
humane interference, if Mr. Weller, attracted by his master’s cries, had not 
rushed in at the moment, and, snatching up a meal-sack, effectually stepped the 
conflict by drawing it over the head and shoulders of the mighty Pott, and 
clasping him tight round the shoulders. 

“ Take avay that ’ere bag from the t’other madman,” said Sam to Ben Allen 
and Bob Saw^'er, who had done nothing but dodge round the group, each with a 
tortoise-shell lancet in his hand, ready to bleed the first man stunned. “ Give it 
up, you wretched little creetur, or I’ll smother you in it.” 

Awed by these threats, and quite out of breath, the Independent suffered 
himself to be disamied ; and Mr. Weller, removing the extinguisher from Pott, 
set him free with a caution. 

“You take yourselves off to bed quietly,” said Sam, “ or I’ll put you both in it, 
and let you fight it out vith the mouth tied, as I vould a dozen sich, if they 
played these games. And you have the goodness to come this here vay, sir. if 
you please.” 

Thus addressing his master, Sam took him by the arm, and led him off, while 
the rival editors were severally removed to their beds by the landlord, under the 
inspection of Mr. Bob Sa^vyer and Mr. Benjamin Allen ; breathing, as they went 
away, many sanguinary threats, and making vague appointments for mortal 
combat next day. When they came to think it over, however, it occuried to 
them that they could do it much better in print, so they recommenced deadly 
hostilities without delay ; and all Eatanswill rung with their boldness — on paper. 

They had taken themselves off in separate coaches, early next morning, before 
the other travellers were stirring ; and the weather having now cleared up, the 
chaise companions once more turned their faces to London. 


CHAPTER LII. 

INVOLVING A SERIOUS CHANGE IN THE WELLER FAMILY, AND THE UNTIMEI Y 
DOWNFALL OF THE RED-NOSED MR. STIGGINS. 

Considering it a matter of delicacy to abstain from introducing either Bob 
Sawyer or Ben Allen to the young couple, until they were fully prepared to 
expect them, and wishing to spare Arabella’s feelings as much as possible, Mr. 


45 ^ 


The Pickwick Club. 


Pickwick proposed that he and Sam should alight in the neighbourhood of the 
George and Vulture, and that the two young men should for the present take up 
their quarters elsewhere. To this, they very readily agreed, and the proposition 
was accordingly acted upon ; Mr. Ben Allen and Mr. Bob Sawyer betaking 
themselves to a sequestered pot-shop on the remotest confines of the Borough, 
behind the bar-door of which their names had in other days veiy often appeared, 
at the head of long and complex calculations worked in white chalk. 

“ Dear me, Mr. Weller,” said the pretty housemaid, meeting Sam at the door. 

“Dear me I vish it wos, my dear,” replied Sam, dropping behind, to let his 
master get out of hearing. “ Wot a sweet lookki’ creetur you are, Mary !” 

“Lor, Mr. Weller, what nonsense you do talk! ’’said Mary. “Oh! do7i'‘ty 
Mr. Weller.” 

“Don’t what, my dear said Sam. 

“ Why, that,” replied the pretty housemaid. “Lor, do get along with you.” 
Thus admonishing him, the pretty housemaid pushed Sam against the wall, 
declaring that he had tumbled her cap, and put her hair quite out of curl. 

“ And prevented what I was going to say, besides,” added Mary. “There’s a 
letter been waiting here for you four days ; you hadn’t been gone away, half an 
hour, when it came ; and more than that, it’s got, immediate, on the outside.” 

“ Vere is it, my love inquired Sam. 

“ I took care of it, for you, or I dare say it would have been lost long before 
this,” replied Mary. “ There, take it ; it’s more than you deserve.” 

With these words, after many pretty little coquettish doubts and fears, and 
wishes that she might not have lost it, Mary produced the letter from behind the 
nicest little muslin tucker possible, and handed it to Sam, who thereupon kissed 
it with much gallantry and devotion. 

“ My goodness me ! ” said Mary, adjusting the tucker, and feigning unconscious- 
ness, “ you seem to have grown veiy fond of it all at once.” 

To this Mr. Weller only replied by a wink, the intense meaning of which no 
description could convey the faintest idea of ; and, sitting himself down beside 
Maiy on a window-seat, opened the letter and glanced at the contents. 

“ Hallo !” exclaimed Sam, “ wot’s all this 

“ Nothing the matter, I hope said Mary,' peeping over his shoulder. 

“ Bless them eyes o’ yourn ! ” said Sam, looldng up. 

“ Never mind my eyes ; you had much better read your letter,” said the pretty 
housemaid ; and as she said so, she made the eyes twinkle with such slyness and 
beauty that they -were perfectly irresistible. 

Sara refreshed himself with a kiss, and read as follows : 

“ Markis Gran 

By darken 

“ My dear Sammle, Wens^y- 

“ I am wery sorry to have the plessure of bein a Bear of ill news your Mother in 
law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too long on the damp grass in the 
rain a hearin of a shepherd who wamt able to leave off till late at night owen to 
his havin vound his-self up vith brandy and vater and not being able to stop his- 
self till he got a little sober which took a many hours to do the doctor says that if 
she’d svallo’d varm brandy and vater artervards insted of afore she mightn’t have 
been no vus her veels wos immedetly greased and everythink done to set her agoin 
as could be inwented your farther had hopes as she vould have vorked round as 
usual but just as she wos a tumen the corner my boy shf took the wrong road and 
vent down hill vith a welocity you never see and notvithstandin that the drag wos 
put on drectly by the medilicl man it womt of no use at all for she paid the last 


453 


Leave if Absence granted. 

pike at twenty minutes afore six o’clock yesterday evenin havin done the jouney 
wary much under the reglar time vich praps was partly owen to her haven taken in 
wery little luggage by the vay your father says that if you vill come and see me 
Sammy he vill take it as a wery great favor for I am wery lonely Samivel n b he 
vill have it spelt that vay vich I say ant right and as there is sich a many things to 
settle he is sure your guvner wont object of course he vill not Sammy for I knows 
him better so he sends his dooty in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours 

“ Tony Veller.” 

“Wot a incomprehensible letter,” said Sam; “who’s to know wot it means, 
vith all this he-ing and I-ing ! It ain’t my father’s writin’, ’cept this here signater 
in print letters ; that’s his.” 

“Perhaps he got somebody to write it for him, and signed it himself after- 
wards,” said the pretty housemaid. 

“ Stop a minit,” replied Sam, running over the letter again, and pausing heic 
and there, to reflect, as he did so. “ You’ve hit it. The gen’l’m’n as wrote it 
wos a tellin’ all about the misfortun’ in a proper vay, and then my father comes a 
lookin’ over him, and complicates the whole concern by puttin’ his oar in. That’s 
just the wery sort o’ thing he’d do. You’re right, Mary, my dear.” 

Having satisfied himself on this point, Sam read the letter all over, once 
more, and, appearing to form a clear notion of its contents for the first time, 
ejaculated thoughtfully, as he folded it up : 

“And so the poor creator’s dead! I’m sorry for it. She wam’t a bad-dis- 
posed ’ooman, if them shepherds had let her alone. I’m wery sorry for it.” 

I^Ir. Weller uttered these words in so serious a manner, that the pretty house- 
maid cast down her eyes and looked very grave. 

“ Hows’ever,” said Sam, putting the letter in his pocket with a gentle sigh, 
“ it wos to be — and wos, as the old lady said arter she’d married the footman. 
Can ’t be helped now, can it, Mary 1 ” 

Mary shook her head, and sighed too. 

“ I must apply to the hemperor for leave of absence,” said Sara. 

Mar}^ sighed again. The letter was so very affecting. 

“ Good bye !” said Sam. 

“ Good bye,” rejoined the pretty housemaid, turning her head away. 

“ Well, shake hands, won’t you } ” said Sam. 

The pretty housemaid put out a hand which, although it was a housemaid’s, was 
a very small one, and rose to go. 

“ I shan’t be weiy long avay,” said Sam. 

“You’re always away,” said Mary, giving her head the slightest possible toss 
in the air. “ You no sooner come, Mr. Weller, than you go again.” 

Mr. Weller drew the household beauty closer to him, and entered upon a 
whispei-ing conversation, which had not proceeded far, when she turned her face 
round and condescended to look at him again. When they parted, it was some- 
how or other indispensably necessaiy for her to go to her room, and anange the 
cap and curls before she could think of presenting herself to her mistress ; which 
preparatory' ceremony she went off to perform, bestowing many nods and smiles 
on Sam over the banisters as she tripped up stairs.^ 

“ I shan’t be avay more than a day, or two, sir, at the farthest, said Sam, 
when he had communicated to Mr. Pickwick the intelligence of his father’s loss. 

“ As long as may be necessary, Sam,” replied Mr. Pickwick, you have my 
full permission to remain.” 

Sam lowed. ' . ^ v • v 

« You will tell your father, Sam, that if I can be of any assistance to him m hii 


4-54 


The Pickwick Cluh. 


present situation, I shall be most willing and ready to lend him any aid in ray 
power,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Thankee, sir,” rejoined Sam. “ I’ll mention it, sir.” 

And with some expressions of mutual good-will and interest, master and man 
separated. 

It was just seven o’clock when Samuel Weller, alighting from the box of a 
stage-coach which passed through Dorking, stood within a few hundred yards of 
the Marquis of Granby. It was a cold dull evening ; the little street looked dreai y 
and dismal ; and the mahogany countenance of the noble and gallant Marquis 
seemed to wear a more sad and melancholy expression than it was wont to do, as 
it swung to and fro, creaking mournfully in the wind. The blinds were pulled 
down, and the shutters partly closed; of the knot of loungers that usually collected 
about the door, not one was to be seen ; the place was silent and desolate. 

Seeing nobody of whom he could ask any preliminary questions, Sam walked 
softly in. Glancing round, he quickly recognised his parent in the distance. 

The widower was seated at a small round table in the little room behind the 
bar, smoking a pipe, with his eyes intently fixed upon the fire. The funeral had 
evidently taken place that day ; for attached to his hat, which he still retained on 
his head, was a hatband measuring about a yard and a half in length, which hung 
over the top rail of the chair and streamed negligently down. Mr. Weller was in 
a very abstracted and contemplative mood. Notwithstanding that Sam called 
him by name several times, he still continued to smoke with the same fixed and 
quiet countenance, and was only roused ultimately by his son’s placing the palm 
of his hand on his shoulder. 

“ Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, “ you ’re velcome.” 

“ I ’ve been a callin’ to you half a dozen times,” said Sam, hanging his hat on 
a peg, “ but you didn’t hear me.” 

“ No, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, again looking thoughtfully at the fire. “ I 
wos in a referee, Sammy.” 

“ Wot about inquired Sam, drawing his chair up to the fire. 

“In a referee, Sammy,” replied the elder Mr. Weller, “regarding her, 
Samivel.” Here Mr. Weller jerked his head in the direction of Dorking church- 
yard, in mute explanation that his words referred to the late Mrs. Weller. 

“ I wos a thinkin’, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, eyeing his son, with great 
earnestness, over his pipe ; as if to assure him that however extraordin,.ry and 
incredible the declaration might appear, it was nevertheless calmly and deliberately 
uttered. “ I wos a thinkin’, Sammy, that upon the whole I wos wery sorry she 
wos gone.” 

“ Veil, and so you ought to be,” replied Sam. 

IMr. Weller nodded his acquiescence in the sentiment, and again fastening his 
iyes on the fire, shrouded himself in a cloud, and mused deeply. 

“ Those wos wery sensible observations as she made, Sammy,” said Mr 
l\’'eller driving the smoke away with his hand, after a long silence. 

“ Wot observations inquired Sam. 

“ Them as she made, arter she was took iU,” replied the old gentleman. 

“ Wot was they ?” 

“ Somethin’ to this here effect. ‘ Veller,’ she says, ‘ I ’m afeard I ’ve not done 
V you quite wot I ought to have done ; you ’re a wery kind-hearted man, and I 
might ha’ made your home more comfortabler. I begin to see now,’ she says, 
' Ten it ’s too late, that if a married ’ooman vishes todDe religious, she should begin 
vith dischargin’ her dooties at home, and makin’ them as is about her cheerful and 
kiappy, .md that vile she goes to church, Or chapel, or wot not, at all proper times, 
«he should oe wery careful not to con-wut this sort o’ thing into a excuse for idle* 


Perilous Position of a IVidower. 


ness or sea-indulgence. I hjve done this,’ she says, ‘ and I’ve vasted time and 
substance on them as has done it more than me ; but I hope ven I'm gone, Veller, 
that you ’ll think on me as I wos afore I know’d them people, and as I raly wos 
by natur’.’ ‘ Susan,’ says I, — I wos took up wery short by this, Samivel ; I von’t 
deny it, my boy — * Susan,’ I says, ‘ 5'ou ’ve been a wery good vife to me, altoge- 
ther ; don’t say nc ;hin’ at all about it ; keep a good heart my dear ; and you ’ll 
live to see me punch that ’ere Stiggins’s head yet.’ She smiled at this, Samivel,” 
said the old gentleman, stifling a sigh with his pipe, “ but she died arter all !” 

“ Veil,” said Sam, venturing to offer a little homely consolation, after the lapse 
)f three or four minutes, consumed by the old gentleman in slowly shaking his 
head from side to side, and solemnly smoking ; “ veil, gov’ner, ve must all come 
to it, one day or another.” 

“ So we must, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller the elder. 

“ There’s a Providence in it all,” said Sam. 

“ O’ course there is,” replied his father with a nod of grave approval. “Wot 
’ud become ol the undertakers vithout it, Sammy 

Lost in the immense field of conjecture opened by this reflection, the elder Mr. 
Weller laid his pipe on the table, and stirred the fire with a meditative visage. 

While the old gentleman was thus engaged, a very buxom-looking cook, dressed 
in mourning, who had been bustling about, in the bar, glided into the room, and 
bestowing many smirks of recognition upon Sam, silently stationed herself at the 
back of his father’s chair, and announced her presence by a slight cough : the 
which, being disregarded, was followed by a louder one. 

“ Hallo !” said the elder Mr. Weller, dropping the poker as he looked round, 
and hastily drew his chair away. “ Wot’s the matter now 

“ Have a cup of tea, there ’s a good soul,” replied the buxom female, coaxingly. 

“I von’t,” replied Mr. Weller, in a somewhat boisterous manner, “I’ll see 
you — ” Mr. Weller hastily checked himself, and added in a low tone, “ furder 
fust.” 

“ Oh, dear, dear ! How adversity does change people ! ” said the lady, looking 
upwards. 

“ It ’s the only think ’twixt this and the doctor as shall change my condition,” 
muttered Mr. Weller. 

“ I really never saw a man so cross,” said the buxom female. 

“ Never mind. It ’s all for my own good ; vich is the reflection vith wich the 
penitent schoolboy comforted his'feeiin’s ven they flogged him,” rejoined the old 
gentleman. 

The buxom female shook her head with a compassionate and s^onpathising air ; 
and, appealing to Sam, inquired whether his father really ought not to make an 
effort to keep up, and not give way to that lowness of spirits. 

“You see, Mr. Samuel,” said the buxom female, “as I was telling him 
yesterday, he will feel lonely, he can’t expect but what he should, sir, but he 
should keep up a good heart, because, dear me, I ’m sure we all pity his loss, and 
are ready to do anything for him ; and there ’s no situation in life so bad, Mr. 
Samuel, that it can’t be mended. Which is what a very worthy person said to 
me when my husband died.” Here the speaker, putting her hand before her 
mouth, coughed again, and looked affectionately at the elder Mr. Weller. 

“ As I don’t rekvire any o’ your conversation just now, mum, vill you have tlie 
goodness to re-tire inquired Mr. Weller in a grave and steady voice. 

“ Well, Air. Weller,” said the buxom female, “I’m sure I only spoke to you 

out of kindness ” ^ x j 

“ Wery likely, tium,” replied Mr. Weller. “ Samivel, show the lady out, and 

shut the door artei her.” 


The Pickwick Club. 


This hint was not lost upon the buxom female ; for she at once left the room, 
and slammed the door behind her, upon which Mr. Weller, senior, falling back in 
his chair in a violent perspiration, said : 

“ Sammy, if I wos to stop here alone vun veek — only \Tm veek, my boy — that 
’ere ’ooman ’ud marry me by force and wiolence afore it was over.” 

“ Wot ! Is she so weiy fond on you ?” inquired Sam. 

“ Fond !” replied his father, “ I can’t keep her avay from me. If I was locked 
up in a fire-proof chest vith a patent Brahmin, she ’d find means to get at me, 
Sammy.” 

“ Wot a thing it is, to be so sought arter !” observed Sam, smiling. 

“ I don’t take no pride out on it, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller, poking the fire 
vehemently, “it’s a hoirid sitiwation. I’m actiwally drove out o’ house and 
home by it. The breath was scarcely out o’ your poor mother-in-law’s body, ven 
vun old ’ooman sends me a pot o’ jam, and another a pot o’ jelly, and another 
brews a blessed large jug o’ camomile-tea, vich she brings in vith her own hands.” 
Mr. Weller paused with an aspect of intense disgust, and, looking round, added 
in a whisper : “ They wos all widders, Sammy, all on ’em, ’cept the camomile-tea 
vun, as wos a single young lady o’ fifty-three.” 

San* gave a comical look in reply, and the old gentleman having broken an 
obstinate lump of coal, with a countenance expressive of as much earnestness and 
malice as if it had been the head of one of the widows last-mentioned, said ; 

“ In short, Sammy, I feel that I ain’t safe anyveres but on the box.” 

“How are you safer there than anyveres else interrupted Sam. 

“’Cos a coachman’s a privileged indiwidual,” replied Mr. Weller, looking 
fixedly at his son. “ ’Cos a coachman may do vithout suspicion wot other men 
may not ; ’cos a coachman may be on the weiy amicablest terms with eighty mile 
o’ females, and yet nobody think that he ever means to marry any vun among ’em. 
And wot other man can say the same, Sammy ?” 

“ Veil, there’s somethin’ in that,” said Sam. 

“ If your gov’ner had been a coachman,” reasoned Mr. Weller, “ do you s’pose 
as that ’ere juiy ’ud ever ha’ conwicted him, s’posin’ it possible as the matter 
could ha’ gone to that extremity } They dustn’t ha’ done it.” 

“ Wy not } ” said Sam, rather disparagingly, 

“ Wy not ! ” rejoined Mr. Weller; “ ’cos it ’ud ha’ gone agin their consciences. 
A reg’lar coachman’s a sort o’ con-nectin’ link betwixt singleness and matrimony, 
and eveiy practicable man knows it.” 

“ Wot ! You mean, they’re gen’ral fav’rites, and nobody takes ad wantage on 
’em, p’raps said Sam. 

His father nodded. 

“ How it ever come to that ’ere pass,” resumed the parent Weller, “I can’t 
say. Wy it is that long-stage coachmen possess such insiniwations, and is alvays 
looked up to — a-dored I may say — by ev’iy young ’ooman in ev’ry town he vurks 
through, I don’t know. I only know that so it is. It’s a reg’lation of natirr — a 
dispensaiy, as your poor mother-in-law used to say.” 

“A dispensation,” said Sam, correcting the old gentleman. 

“ Weiy good, Samivel, a dispensation if you like it better,” returned Mr. 
Weller ; “ / call it a dispensary, and it’s alvays writ up so, at the places vere they 
gives you physic for nothin’ in your own bottles ; that’s all.” 

With these words, Mr. Weller re-filled and re-lighted his pipe, and once more 
Bummoning uj) a meditative expression of countenance, continued as follows : 

“ Therefore, my boy, as I do not see the adwisability o’ stoppin here to be 
niarrid vether I vant to or not, and as at the same time I do not vish to separate 
myself from them interestin’ members o’ society altogether, I have come to the 


Mr. Stiggins calls. 


determination o’ drivin’ the Safety, and puttin’ up vunce more at the Bell Savage, 
vich is my nat’ral-born element, Sammy.” 

And wot’s to become o’ the bis’ness inquired Sam. 

“ The bis’ness, Samivel,” replied the old gentleman, “ good-vill, stock, and 
fixters, vill be sold by private contract ; and out o’ the money, two hundred pound, 
agreeable to a rekvest o’ your mother-in-law’s to me a little afore she died, vill be 
inwested in your name in — wot do you call them things agin 

“Wot things inquired Sam. 

“ Them things as is always a goin’ up and down, in the City.” 

“ Omnibuses suggested Sam. 

“Nonsense,” replied Mr. Weller. “Them things as is alvays a fluctooatin’, 
and gettin’ theirselves inwolved somehow or another vith the national deot, and 
the checquers bills, and all that.” 

“ Oh ! the funds,” said Sam. 

“ Ah ! ” rejoined Mr. Weller, “ the funs ; two hundred pounds o’ the money 
is to be inwested for you, Samivel, in the funs ; four and a half per cent, reduced 
counsels, Sammy.” 

“ Wery kind o’ the old lady to think o’ me,” said Sam, “ and I’m very much 
obliged to her.” 

“ The rest vill be inwested in my name,” continued the elder Mr. Weller ; “ and 
ven I’m took off the road, it’ll come to you, so take care you don’t spend it all at 
vunst, my boy, and mind that no widder gets ainklin’ o’ your fortun’, or you’re done.” 

Having delivered this warning, Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with a more serene 
countenance ; the disclosure of these matters appearing to have eased his mind 
considerably. 

“ Somebody’s a tappin’ at the door,” said Sam. 

“ Let ’em tap,” replied his father, with dignity. 

Sam acted upon the direction. There was another tap, and another, and then a 
long row of taps ; upon which Sam inquired why the tapper was not admitted. 

“ Hush,” whispered Mr. Weller, with apprehensive looks, “ don’t take no 
notice on ’em, Sammy, it’s vun o’ the widders, p’raps.” 

No notice being taken of the taps, the unseen visitor, after a short lapse, ventured 
to open the door and peep in. It was no female head that was thrust in at the 
partially opened door, but the long black locks and red face of Mr. Stiggins. 
Mr. Weller’s pipe fell from his hands. 

The reverend gentleman gradually opened the door by almost imperceptible 
degrees, until the aperture was just wide enough to admit of the passage of his 
lank body, when he glided into the room and closed it after him with great care 
and gentleness. Turning towards Sam, and raising his hands and eyes in token 
of the unspeakable sorrow with which he legarded the calamity that had befallen 
the family, he carried the high-backed chair to his old comer by the fire, and, seat- 
ing himself on the very edge, drew forth a broAvn pocket-handkerchief, and applied 
‘he same to his optics. 

While this was going forward, the elder Mr. Weller sat back in his chair, with 
his eyes wide open, his hands planted on his knees, and his whole countenance 
expressive of absorbing and overwhelming astonishment. Sam sat opposite him 
n perfect silence, waiting, with eager curiosity, for the termination of the scene. 

Mr. Stiggins kept the brown pocket-handkerchief before his eyes for some 
minutes, moaning decently meanwhile, and then, mastering his feelings by a strong 
effort, put it in his pocket and buttoned it up. After this, he stirred the fire ; aftei 
’hat, he rubbed his hands and looked at Sam. 

“ Oh my young friend,” said Mr. Stiggin*, Veak^^ the silence in a very low 
roice, “ here’s a sorrowful affliction !” 


4?8 


The Pickwick Clul. 


S'lm nodded, very slightly. 

“ For the man of wrath, too ! ” added Mr. Stiggins ; “ it makes a vessel’s heart 
bleed!” 

Mr. Weller was overheard by his son to murmur something relative to making a 
vessel’s nose bleed ; but Mr. Stiggins heard him not. 

“ Do you know, young man,” whispered Mr. Stiggins, drawing his chair closei 
to Sam, “ whether she has left Fmanuel anything ?” 

“ Who’s he ? ” inquired Sam. 

“ The chapel,” replied Mr. Stiggins ; “ our chapel ; our fold, Mr. Samuel.” 

“ She hasn’t left the fold nothin’, nor the shepherd nothin’, nor the animals 
nothin’,” sdid Sam, decisively ; “nor the dogs neither.” 

Mr. Stiggins looked slyly at Sam ; glanced at the old gentleman, who was 
sitting wdth his eyes closed, as if asleep ; and drawing his chair still nearer, said : 

“ Nothing for me, Mr. Samuel ? ” 

Sam shook his head. 

“ I think there’s something,” said Stiggins, turning as pale as he could turn 
“ Consider, Mr. Samuel ; no little token 

“ Not so much as the vorth o’ that ’ere old umberella o’ youm,” replied Sam. 

“ Perhaps,” said Mr. Stiggins, hesitatingly, after a tew moments’ deep thought, 
“ perhaps she recommended me to the care of the man oi wrath, Mr. Samuel .? ” 

“I think that’s wery likely, from what he said,” rejoined Sam; “ he wos a 
speakin’ about you, jist now.” 

“Was he, though exclaimed Stiggins brightening up. “ Ah ! He’s changed, 
1 dare say. We might live very comfortably together now, Mr. Samuel, eh ? 
I could take care of his property when you are away — good care, you see.” 

Heaving a long-drawn sigh, Mr. Stiggins paused for a response. Sam nodded, 
and Mr. AVeller, the elder, gave vent to an extraordinary sound, which being neither 
a groan, nor a grunt, nor a gasp, nor a growl, seemed to partake in some degree 
of the character of all four. 

Mr. Stiggins, encouraged by this sound, which he understood to betoken 
remorse or repentance, looked about him, rubbed his hands, wept, smiled, wept 
again, and then, walking softly across the room to a well-remembered shelf in one 
corner, took down a tumbler, and with great deliberation put four lumps of sugar 
in it. Having got thus far, he looked about him again, and sighed grievously ; 
with that, he walked softly into the bar, and presently returning with the tumbler 
half full ot pine-apple rum, advanced to the kettle which was singing gaily on 
the hob, mixed his grog, stirred it, sipped it, sat dowm, and taking a long and 
hearty pull at the rum and water, stopped for breath. 

The elder Mr. Weller, who still continued to make various strange and uncouth 
attempts to appear asleep, offered not a single word during these proceedings ; 
but when Stiggins stopped for breath, he darted upon him, and snatching the 
tumbler from his hand, threw the remainder of the rum and water in his face, and 
the glass itself into the grate. Then, seizing the reverend gentleman firmly by the 
collar, he suddenly fell to kicking him most furiously; accompanying every appli- 
cation of his top-boots to Mr. Stiggins’s person, with sundry violent and incoherent 
anathemas upon his limbs, eyes, and body. 

“ Sammy,” said Mr. We’ler, “ put my hat on tight for me.” 

Sam dutif^uliy adjusted ihe hat with the long hatband more fiiTnlyon his father’s 
head, and the old gentleman, resuming his kicking with greater agility than before, 
tumbled with Mr. Stiggins through the bar, and through the passage, out at the 
front d^<^r, and so into the street ; the kicking continuing the whole way, and 
increasmg in vehemence, rather than diminishing, every time the top-boot wr;» 
lifted. 


And meets with a Cold Reception. 459 

It was a beautiful and exhilarating sight to see the red-nosed man writhing in 
Mr. Weller’s grasp, and his whole frame quivering with anguish as kick followed 
kick in rapid succession ; it was a still more exciting spectacle to behold Mr. 
Weller, after a powerful stmggle, immersing Mr. Stiggins’s head in a horse- 
trough full of water, and holding it there, until he was half suffocated. 

“There!” said Mr. Weller, throwing all his energy into one most complicated 
kick, as he at length permitted Mr. Stiggins to withdraw his head ffom the trough, 
“ send any vun o’ them lazy shepherds here, and I’ll pound him to a jelly first, and 
drownd him arteiwards 1 Sammy, help me in, and fill me a small glass of brandyi 
I’m out o’ breath, my boy.” 


CHAPTER LIII. 

COMPRISING THE FINAL EXIT OF MR. JINGLE AND JOB TROTTER ; WITH A 
GREAT MORNING OF BUSINESS IN GRAY’S INN SQUARE. CONCLUDING WITH 
A DOUBLE KNOCK AT MR. PERKER’S DOOR. 

When Arabella, after some gentle preparation, and many assurances that there 
was not the least occasion for being low-spirited, was at length made acquainted 
by Mr. Pickwuck with the unsatisfactoiy result of his visit to Birmingham, she 
burst into tears, and sobbing aloud, lamented in moving terms that she should 
have been the unhappy cause of any estrangement between a father and his son. 

“ My dear girl,” said Mr. Pickwuck, kindly, “ it is no fault of yours. It was 
impossible to foresee that the old gentleman would be so strongly prepossessed 
against his son’s mamage, you know. I am sure,” added Mr. Pickwick, glancing 
at her pretty face, “ he can have very little idea of the pleasure he denies 
himself.” 

“ Oh my dear Mr. Pickwick,” said Arabella, “what shall we do, if he con- 
tinues to be angry with us } ” 

“ Why, wait patiently, my dear, until he thinks better of it,” replied Mr. Pick- 
wick, cheerfully. 

“ But, dear Mr. Pickwick, what is to become of Nathaniel if his father 
withdraws his assistance 7 ” urged Arabella. 

“ In that case, my love,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick, “ I will venture to prophesy 
that he will find some other friend who will not be backw^ard in helping him to 
start in the world.” 

The significance of this reply was not so well disguised by Mr. Pickwick but 
that Arabella understood it. So, throwing her arms round his neck, and kissing 
him affectionately, she sobbed kuder than before. 

“ Come, come,” said Mr. Pickwick, taking her hand, “ we will wait here a few 
days longer, and see whether he writes or takes any other notice of your husbr id’s 
communication. If not, I have thought of half a dozen plans, any ’one of wnich 
would make you happy at once. There, my dear, there ! ” 

With these words, Mr. Pickwick gently pressed Arabella’s hand, and bade her 
dry her eyes, and not distress her husband. Upon which, Arabella, who was one 
of the best little ci eatures alive, put her handkerchief in her reticule, and by the dme 
Mr. Winkle joined them, exhibited in full lustre the same beaming smiles and 
sparkling eyes that had originally captivated him. 

“ This is a distressing predicament for these young people,” thought Mr. Pick- 
wick, as he dressed himself next morning. “ I’ll wallc up to Perker s, and consult 
him about the matter.” 


460 


The Pickwick Club. 


As Mr. Pickwick was further prompted to betake himself to Gray’s Inn Square 
by an anxious desire to come to a pecuniary settlement with the kind-hearted 
little attorney without further delay, he made a hunled breakfast, and exe* 
cuted his intention so speedily, that ten o’clock had not struck when he reached 
Gray’s Inn. 

It still wanted ten minutes to the hour when he had ascended the staircase on 
which Perker’s chambers were. The clerks had not arrived yet, and he beguiled 
the time by looking out of the staircase window. 

The healthy light of a fine October morning made even the dingy old houses 
brighten up a little : some of the dusty windows actually looking almost cheerful 
as the sun’s rays gleamed upon them. Clerk after clerk hastened into the square 
by one or other of the entrances, and looking up at the Hall clock, accelerated or 
decreased his rate of walking according to the time at which his office hours nomi- 
nally commenced ; the half-past nine o’clock people suddenly becoming very 
brisk, and the ten o’clock gentlemen falling into a pace of most aristocratic slow- 
ness. The clock struck ten, and clerks poured in faster than ever, each one in a 
greater perspiration than his predecessor. The noise of unlocking and opening 
doors echoed and re-echoed on every side ; heads appeared as if by magic in 
every window ; the porters took up their stations for the day ; the slipshod 
laundresses hurried off ; the postman ran from house to house ; and the whole legal 
hive was in a bustle. 

“You’re early, Mr. Pickwick,” said a voice behind him. 

“ Ah, Mr. Lowten,” replied that gentleman, looking round, and recognising 
his old acquaintance. 

“ Precious warm walking, isn’t it ? ” said Lowten, drawing a Bramah key from 
his pocket, wdth a small plug therein, to keep the dust out. 

“You appear to feel it so,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick, smiling at the clerk, who 
was literally red hot. 

“I’ve come along rather, I can tell you,” replied Lowten. “It went the 
half hour as I came through the Polygon. I’m here before Mm, though, so I 
don’t mind.” 

Comforting himself with this reflection, Mr. Lowten extracted the plug from the 
door-key, and having opened the door, replugged and repocketed his Bramah, and 
picked up the letters which the postman had dropped through the box. He then 
ushered Mr. Pickwick into the office. Here, in the twinkling of an eye, he divested 
himself of his coat, put on a threadbare garment which he took out of a desk, hung 
up his hat, pulled forth a few sheets of cartridge and blotting-paper in alternate 
layers, and sticking a pen behind his ear, rubbed his hands with an air of great 
satisfaction. 

“There you see, Mr. Pickwick,” he said, “now I’m complete. I’ve got my 
office coat on, and my pad out, and let him come as soon as he likes. You 
haven’t got a pinch of snuff about you, have you 

“ No, I have not,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“I’m sorry for it,” said Lowten. “Never mind. I’ll run out presently, 
and get a bottle of soda. Don’t I look rather queer about the eyes, Mr. Pick- 
wick ? ” 

The individual appealed to, surveyed Mr. Lowten’s eyes from a distance, and 
expressed his opinion that no unusual queemess was perceptible in those features. 

“I’m glad of it,” said Lowten. “We were keeping it up pretty tolerably at 
the Stump last night, and I’m rather out of sorts this morning. Perker’s been 
about that business of yours, by the bye.” 

“ What business ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “ Mrs. Bardell’s costs ? ” 

“No, I don’t mean that,” replied Mr. Lowten. “About getting tliat cuslomei 


Contemptible conduct oj Job Trotter. 


461 


that we paid the ten shillings in the pound to the bill discounter for, on your 
account — to get him out of the Fleet, you know — about getting him to Demerara.” 

“ Oh ? Mr. Jingle said Mr. Pickwick, hastily. “ Yes. Well ? ” 

“ Well, it’s all arranged,” said Lowten, mending his pen. “ The agent at Liver- 
pool said he had been obliged to you many times when you were in business, and 
he would be glad to take him on your recommendation.” 

“ That’s well,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ I am delighted to hear it.” 

“ But I say,” resumed Lowten, scraping the back of the pen preparatory to 
making a fresh split, “ what a soft chap that other is ! ” 

“ Which other } ” 

“ Why, that seiwant, or friend, or whatever he is ; you know ; Trotter.” 

“Ah?” said Mr. Pickwick, with a smile. “I always thought him the 
reverse.” 

“ Well, and so did I, from what little I saw of him,” replied Lowten, “it only 
shows how one may be deceived. What do you think of his going to Demerara, 
too ? ” 

“ What ! And giving up what was offered him here ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pick- 
wick. 

“ Treating Perker’s offer of eighteen bob a-week, and a rise if he behaved him- 
self, like dirt,” replied Lowten. “ He said he must go along with the other 
one, and so they persuaded Perker to write again, and they’ve got him some- 
thing on the same estate ; not near so good, Perker says, as a convict would 
get in New South Wales, if he appeared at his trial in a new suit of clothes.” 

“ Foolish fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, with glistening eyes. “ Foolish fellow.” 

“Oh, it’s worse than foolish; it’s downright sneaking, you know,” replied 
Lowten, nibbing the pen with a contemptuous face. “He says that he’s the 
only friend he ever had, and he’s attached to him, and all that. Friendship’s a 
very good thing in its way ; we are all veiy friendly and comfortable at the Stump, 
for* instance, over our grog, where every man pays for himself ; but damn hurt- 
ing yourself for anbody else, you know ! No man should have more than two 
attachments — the first, to number one, and the second to the ladies ; that’s 
what I say — ha! ha ! ” Mr. Lowten concluded with a loud laugh, half in jocu- 
larity, and half in derision, which was prematurely cut short by the sound of 
Perker’s footsteps on the stairs : at the first approach of which, he vaulted on 
his stool with an agility most remarkable, and wrote intensely. 

The greeting between Mr. Pickwick and his professional adviser was warm 
and cordial ; the client was scarcely ensconced in the attorney’s arm chair, how- 
ever, when a knock was heard at* the door, and a voice inquired whether Mr. 
Perker was within. 

“ Hark I ” said Perker, “ that’s one of our vagabond friends— Jingle himself, 
my dear sir. Will you see him ? ” 

“ What do you think .> ” inquired Mr. Pickwick, hesitating. 

“ Yes, I think you had better. Here, you sir, what’s your name, walk in, will 


^ In compliance with this unceremonious invitation, Jingle and Job walked into 
the room, but, seeing Mr. Pickwick, stopped short in some confusion. 

“ Well,” said Perker, “ don’t vou know that gentleman ?” 

“Good reason to,” replied Air. Jingle, stepping fonvard. “ Air. Pickwick— 
deepest obligations— life preserver— made a man of me— you shall never repent 
it sir.” 

’“I am happy to hear you say so,” said Mr. Pickwick. “You look much 
better*’’ 

“ Thanks to you, sir— great change— Majesty’s Fleet— unwholesome place— 


The Pickwick Club. 


462 

very,” said Jingle, shaking his head. He was decently and cleanly dressed, and 
so was Job, who stood bolt upright behind him, staring at Mr. Pickwick with a 
visage ol iron. 

‘‘ When do they go to Liverpool ? ” inquired ISTr. Pickwick, half aside to 
Perker. 

“ This evening, sir, at seven o’clock,” said Job, taking one step forward. “By 
the heavy coach horn the city, sir.” 

“ Are your places taken? ” 

“ They are, sir,” replied Job. 

“You have fully made up your mind to go ? ” 

“ I hrve, sir,” answered Job. 

“ With regard to such an outfit as was indispensable for Jingle,” said Perker, 
addressing Mr. Pickwick aloud, “I have taken upon myself to make an arrange- 
ment for the deduction of a small sum from his quarterly salary, which, being 
made only for one year, and regularly remitted, will provide for that expense. I 
entirely disapprove of your doing anything for him, my dear sir, which is not 
dependent on his own exertions and good conduct.” 

“ Certainly,” interposed Jingle, with gieat fiimness. “ Clear head — man of the 
world — quite right — perfectly.” 

“ By compounding with his creditor, releasing his clothes from the pawn- 
broker’s, relieving him in prison, and paying for his passage,” continued Perker, 
without noticing Jingle’s observation, “ you have already lost upwards Oi fifty 
pounds.” 

“Not lost,” said Jingle, hastily. “Pay it all — stick to business — cash up — 
every farthing. Yellow fever, perhaps — can’t help that — if not — ” Here Mr. 
Tingle paused, and striking the crown of his hat with great violence, passed his 
hand over his eyes, and sat down. 

“ He means to say,” said Job, advancing a few paces, “ that if he is not earned 
off by the fever, he will pay the money back again. If he lives, he will, Mr. Pick- 
wick. I will see it done. I know he will, sir,” said Job, with energy. “ I could 
undertake to swear it.” 

“ Well, well,” said Mr. Pickwick, who had been bestowing a score or two 
of frowns upon Perker, to stop his summary of benefits conferred, which the little 
attorney obstinately disregarded, “ you must be careful not to play any more des- 
perate cricket matches, Mr. Jingle, or to renew your acquaintance with Sir Thomas 
Blazo, and I have little doubt of your preserving your health.” 

Mr. Jingle smiled at this sally, but looked rather foolish notwithstanding ; so, 
Mr. Pickwick changed the subject by saying, 

“You don’t happen to know, do you, what has become of another friend of 
yours — a more humble one, whom I saw at Rochester ?” 

“ Dismal Jemmy ?” inquired Jingle. 

“ Yes.” 

Jingle shook his head. 

“ Clever rascal — queer fellow, hoaxing genius — Job’s brother.” 

“ Job’s brother ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick. “ Well, now I look at him closely, 
Jiere is a likeness.” 

“We were always considered like each other, sir,” said Job, with a cunning 
look just lurking in the corners of his eyes, “ only I was really of a serious nature, 
and he never was. He emigrated to America, sir, in consequence of being 
too much sought after here, to be comfortable ; and has never been heard of 
since.” 

“ That accounts for my not having received the ‘ page from the romance of real 
life,* which he promised me one morning when he appeared to be contemplating 


A Last Chance. 463 

suicide on Rochester Bridge, I suppose,” said Mr, Pickwick, smiling. *‘1 need 
not inquire whether his dismal behaviour was natura. or assumed.” 

“ He could assume anything, sir,” said Job. “ You may consider yoursell very 
fortunate in having escaped him so easily. On intimate terms he would have 
been even a more dangerous acquaintance than — ” Job looked at Jingle, hesitated, 
and finally added, “ than — than — myself even.” 

“ A hopeful family yours, Mr. Trotter,” said Perker, sealing a letter which he 
had just finished witing. 

“ Yes, sir,” replied Job. “ Very much so.” 

“Weil,” said the little man, laughing; “I hope you are going to disgrace 
it. Deliver this letter to the agent when you reach Liverpool, and let me advise 
you, gentlemen, not to be too knowing in the West Indies. If you throw away 
this chance, you will both richly deseive to be hanged, as I sincerely trust you 
will be. And now you had better leave Mr. Pickwick and me alone, for we have 
other matters to talk over, and time is precious.” As Perker said this, he looked 
towards the door, with an evident desire to render the leave-taking as brief as 
possible. 

It was brief enough on Mr. Jingle’s part. He thanked the little attorney in a 
few hurried words for the kindness and promptitude with which he had rendered 
his assistance, and, turning to his benefactor, stood for a few seconds as if irreso- 
lute what to say or how to act. Job Trotter relieved his perplexity ; for, with a 
humble and a grateful bow to Mr. Pickwick, he took his friend gently by the ami, 
and led him away. 

“ A worthy couple !” said Perker, as the door closed behind them. 

“ I hope they may become so,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “ What do you think ? 
Is there any chance of their permanent reformation .?” 

Perker shiugged his shoulders doubtfully, but observing Mr. Pickwick’s anxious 
and disappointed look, rejoined : 

“ Of course there is a chance. I hope it may prove a good one. They are un- 
questionably penitent now ; but then, you know, they have the recollection of very 
iccent suffering fresh upon them. What they may become, when that fades away, 
is a problem that neither you nor I can solve. However, my dear sir,” added 
Perker, laying his hand on Mr. Pickwick’s shoulder, “your object is equallj 
honourable, whatever the result is. Whether that species of benevolence which 
is so very cautious and long-sighted that it is seldom exercised at all, lest its ownei 
should ]be imposed upon, and so w^ounded in his self-love, be real charity or a 
worldly counterfeit, I leave to wiser heads than mine to determine. But if those 
two fellows were to commit a burglary to-morrow, my opinion of this action 
would be equally high.” 

With these remarks, which were delivered in a much more animated and ear- 
nest manner than is usual in legal gentlemen, Perker drew his chair to his desk, 
and listened to Mr. Pickwick’s recital of old Mr. Winkle’s obstinacy. 

“ Give him a week,” said Perker, nodding his head prophetically. 

“ Do you think he will come round ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ I thinlc he will,” rejoined Perker. “ If not, we must try the young lady’s 
persuasion ; and that is what anybody but you, would have done at first.” 

Mr. Perker was taking a pr'nch of snuff with various grotesque contractions of 
countenance, eulogistic of the persuasive powers appertaining unto young ladies, 
when the murmur of inquiry and answer was heard in the outer office, and Lowten 
tapped at the door. 

“ Come in ! ” cried the little man. 

The clerk came in, and shut the door after him, with great mystery. 

Whkt’s the matter ? ” inquired Perker. 


464 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ You ’re wanted, sir.” 

“ Who wants me ?” 

Lowten looked at Mr. Pickwick, and coughed. • 

“ Who wants me ? Can’t you speak. Air. Lowten 

“ Why, sir,” replied Lowten, “ it ’s Dodson ; and Fogg is with him.” 

“ Bless my life ! ” said the little man, looking at his watch, “ I appointed them 
to be here, at half-past eleven, to settle that matter of yours, Pickwick. I gave 
them an undertaking on which they sent down your discharge ; it ’s very awk- 
ward, my dear sir ; what will you do } Would you like to step into the next 
room ?” 

The next room being the identical room in which Messrs. Dodson and Fogg 
were, Mr. Pickwick replied that he would remain wliere he was : the more espe- 
cially as Alessrs. Dodson and Fogg ought to be ashamed to look him in the face, 
instead of his being ashamed to see them. Which latter circumstance he begged 
Mr. Perker to note, with a glowing countenance and many marks of indignation. 

“ Very well, my dear sir, veiy’ well,” replied Perker, “I can only say that if 
you expect either Dodson or Fogg to exhibit any symptom of shame or confusion 
at having to look you, or anybody else, in the face, you are the most sanguine 
man in your expectations that / ever met with. Show them in. Air. Lowten.” 

Air. Lowten disappeared with a grin, and immediately returned ushering in the 
firm, in due form of precedence : Dodson first, and Fogg afterwards. 

“You have seen Air. Pickwick, I believe.?” said Perker to Dodson, inclining 
his pen in the direction where that gentleman was seated. 

“ How do you do, Air. Pickwick .? ” said Dodson in a loud voice. 

“ Dear me,” cried Fogg, “ how do you do. Air. Pickwick .? I hope you are 
well, sir. I thought I knew the face,” said Fogg, di*awing up a chair, and 
looking round him with a smile. 

Air. Pickwick bent his head very slightly, in answer to these salutations, and, 
seeing Fogg pull a bundle of papers from his coat-pocket, rose and walked to 
the window. 

“ There’s no occasion for Air. Pickwick to move, Air. Perker,” said Fogg, 
untying the red tape which encircled the little bundle, and smiling again more 
sweetly than before. “ Air. Pickwick is pretty well acquainted with these pro- 
ceedings. There are no secrets between us, I think. He ! he ! he ! ” 

“ Not many, I think,” said Dodson. “ Ha ! ha ! ha !” Then both the partners 
laughed together— pleasantly and cheerfully, as men who are going to receive 
money, often do. 

“ We shall make Air. Pickwick pay for peeping,” said Fogg, with considerable 
native humour, as he unfolded his papers. “The amount of the taxed costs is 
one hundred and thirty three, six, four. Air. Perker.” 

There was a great comparing of papers, and turning over of leaves, by Fogg 
and Perker, after this statement of profit and loss. Aleanwhile, Dodson said in an 
uffable manner to Air. Pickwick : 

“ I don’t think you are looking quite so stout as when I had the pleasure oi 
seeing you last, Mr. Pickwick.” 

“ Possibly not, sir,” replied Air. Pickwick, who had been flashing forth looks 
of fierce indignation, without producing the smallest effect on either of the sharp 
practitioners ; “I believe I am not, sir. I have been persecuted and annoyed by 
Scoundrels of late, sir.” 

Perker coughed violently, and asked Air. Pickwick whether he wouldn’t like to 
look at the morning paper ? To which inquiry Air. Pickwick returned a most 
decided negative. 

True,” said Dodson, '• I dare say you have been annoyed in the Fleet ; 


A Piece of Mr. Pichudck's Mind. 465 

there are some odd gentiy there. Whereabouts were your apartments, Mr. 
Pickwick ?” 

“My one room,” replied that much-injured gentleman, “was on the Coffee 
l^oom flight.” 

“Oh, indeed!” said Dodson. “I believe that is a very pleasant part of the 
establishment.” 

“ Veiy,” replied Mr. Pickwick dril 5 \ 

There was a coolness about aU this, which, to a gentleman of an excitable 
temperament, had, under the circumstances, rather an exasperating tendency. 
Mr. Pickwick restrained his wrath by gigantic efforts ; but when Perker wrote « 
cheque for the whole amount, and Fogg deposited it in a small pocket-book with 
a triumphant smile playing over his pimply features which communicated itself 
likewise to the stern countenance of Dodson, he felt the blood in his cheeks 
tingling with indignation. 

“Now. Mr. Dodson,” said Fogg, putting up the pocket-book and drawing on 
his gloves, “ I am at your service.” 

“ Very good,” said Dodson, rising, “ I am quite ready.” 

“I am very happy,” said Fogg, softened by the cheque, “to have had the 
pleasure of making Mr. Pickwick’s acquaintance. I hope you don’t think quite 
so ill of us, Mr. Pickwick, as when we first had the pleasure of 9»:;eing you.” 

“ I hope not,” said Dodson, with the high tone of calumniated virtue. “ Mr. 
Pickwick now knows us better, I trust : whatever your opinion of gentlemen of 
our profession may be, I beg to assure you, sir, that I bear no ill-will or vindictive 
feeling towards you for the sentiments you thought proper to express in our office 
in Freeman’s Court, Comhill, on the occasion to which my partner has referred.” 

“ Oh no, no ; nor I,” said Fogg, in a most forgiving manner. 

“ Our conduct, sir,” said Dodson, “ will speak for itself, and justify itself I 
hope, upon every occasion. We have been in the profession some years, Mr. 
Pickwick, and have been honoured with the confidence of many excellent clients. 
1 wish you good morning, sir.” 

“ Good morning, Mr. Pickwick,” said Fogg. So saying, he put his umbrella 
under his arm, drew off his right glove, and extended the hand of reconciliation 
to that most indignant gentleman : who, thereupon, thrust his hands beneath his 
coat tails, and eyed the attorney with looks of scornful amazement. 

“ Lowten I ” cried Perker at this moment. “ Open the door.” 

“ Wait one instant,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ Perker, I will speak.” 

“ My dear sir, pray let the matter rest where it is,” said the little attorney, who 
had been in a state of nervous apprehension during the whole inteiwiew ; “ Mr. 
Pickwick, I beg I ” 

“ I will not be put down, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. “ Mr. Dodson, 
you have addressed some remarks to me.” 

Dodson turned round, bent his head meekly, and smiled. 

“Some remarks to me,” repeated Mr. Pickwick, almost breathless; “and 
your partner has tendered me his hand, and you have both assumed a tone of 
forgiveness and high-mindedness, which is an extent of impudence that I was 
not prej)ared for, even in you.” 

“ What, sir ! ” exclaimed Dodson. 

“ What, sir !” reiterated Fogg. , . 

“ Do you know that I have been the victim of your plots and conspiracies? 
continued Mr. Pickwick. “ Do you know that I am the man whom you have 
been imprisoning and robbing ? Do you Icnow that you were the at^meys foi 
the plaintiff, in Bardell and Pickwick ?” 

“Yes, sir, we do k'aow it,” replied Dodson. 

H H 


The Pickwick Club. 


466 

Of course we know it, sir,” rejoined Fogg, slapping his pocket — perhaps 
by accident. 

“ I see that you recollect it with satisfaction,” said Mr. Pickwick, attempting to 
call up a sneer for the first time in his life, and failing mo<;t signally in so doing. 
“ Although I have long been anxious to tell you, in plain tcims, what my opinion 
of you is, I should have let even this opportunity pass, in deference to my friend 
Pcrker’s wishes, but for the unwanan table tone you have assumed, and your 
insolent familiarity. I say insolent familiarity, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, turning 
uj>on Fogg with a fierceness of gestuie which caused that person to retreat 
towards the door with great expedition. 

“Take care, sir,” said Dodson, who, though he was the biggest man of the 
party, had prudently intrenched himself behind Fogg, and was speaking over his 
head with a very pale face. “ Let him assault you, Mr. Fogg ; don’t return it on 
any account.” 

“No, no, I won’t return it,” said Fogg, falling back a little more as he spoke ; 
to the evident relief of his partner, who by these means was gradually getting 
into the outer office. 

“You are,” continued Mr. Pickwick, resuming the thread of his discourse, 
“you are a well-matched pair of mean, rascally, pettifogging robbers.” 

“ Well,” interposed Perker, “ is that all ?” 

“ It is all summed up in that,” rejoined Mr. Pickwdck ; “ they are mean, 
rascally, pettifogging robbers.” 

“ There ! ” said Perker in a most conciliatory tone. “ My dear sirs, he has said 
all he has to say. Now pray go. Lownen, is that door open ?” 

Mr. Lowten, with a distant giggle, replied in the affirmative. 

“There, there— good morning — good morning — now pray, my dear sirs, — Mr. 
Lowten, the door !” cried the little man, pushing Dodson and Fogg nothing loath, 
out of the office ; “ this way, my dear sirs, — now pray don’t prolong this — deal 
me — Mr. Lowten — the door, sir — why don’t you attend 

“ If there’s law in England, sir,” said Dodson, looking towards Mr. Pickwick, 
as he put on his hat, “ you shall smart for this.” 

“ You are a couple of mean — ” 

“ Remember, sir, you pay dearly for this,” said Fogg. 

“ — Rascally, pettifogging robbers ! ” continued Mr. Pickwick, taking not the 
least notice of the threats that were addressed to him. 

“Robbers!” cried Mr. Pickwick, running to the stair-head, as the two attor- 
neys descended. 

“Robbers!” shouted Mr. Pickwick, breaking from Lowten and Perker, and 
thrusting his head out of the staircase window. 

When Mr. Pickwick drew in his head again, his countenance was smiling an ' 
placid ; and, walking quietly back into the office, he declared that he had- now 
removed a great weight from his mind, and that he felt perfectly comfortable and 
happy. 

Perker said nothing at all until he had emptied his snuff-box, and sent Lowten out 
to fill it, when he was seized with a fit of laughing, which lasted five minutes ; 
at the expiration of whi^ time he said that he supposed he ought to be veiy angiy', 
but he couldn’t think of the business seriously yet — when he could, he would be. 

“ Well, now,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ let me have a settlement with you.” 

“ Of the same kind as the last inquired Perker, with another laugh. 

“Not exactly,” rejoined Mr. Pickwick, drawing out his pocket-book, ana 
shaking the little man heartily by the hand, “ I only mean a pecuniary settlement. 
You have done me many acts of kindness that I can never repay, and have no 
wish to 1 epa y, for I prefer continuing the obligation.” 


Rat-tat-tat-tac. 


467 


With this preface the two friends dived into some very complicated accounts 
and vouchers, which, having been duly displayed and gone through by Perker, 
were at once discharged by Mr. Pickwick with many professions of esteem and 
friendship. 

They had no sooner arrived at this point, than a most violent and startling 
knocking was heard at the door ; it was not an ordinary double knock, but a 
constant and uninterrupted succession of the loudest single raps, as if the knocker 
were endowed with the perpetual motion, or the person outside had forgotten to 
leave off. 

“ Dear me, what’s that ! ” exclaimed Perker, starting. 

“ I think it is a knock at the door,” said Mr. Pickwick, as h there could be the 
smallest doubt of the fact ! 

The knocker made a more energetic reply than words could have yielded, for it 
continued to hammer with surprising force and noise, without a moment’s cessa- 
tion. 

“Dear me!” said Perker, ringing his bell, “we shall alarm the Inn. Mr. 
Lowten, don’t you hear a knock ? ” 

“ I’ll answer the door in one moment, sir,” replied the clerk. 

The knocker appeared to hear the response, and to assert that is was quite im- 
possible he could wait so long. It made a stupendous uproar. 

“ It’s quite dreadful,” said Mr. Pickwick, stopping his ears. 

“ Make haste, Mr. Lowten,” Perker called out, “ we shall have the panels 
beaten in.” 

Mr. Lowten, who was v^ashing his hands in a dark closet, hurried to the door, and . 
turning the handle, beheld the appearance which is described in the next chapter. 


CHAPTER LIV. 


CONTAINING SOME PARTICULARS RELATIVE TO THE DOUBLE KNOCK, AND 
OTHER MAl'TERS : AMONG WHICH CERTAIN INTERESTING DISCLOSURES 
RELATIVE TO MR. SNODGRASS AND A YOUNG LADY ARE BY NO MEANS 
IRRELEVANT TO THIS HISTORY. 


The object that presented itself to the eyes of the astonished clerk, was a boy 
—a wonderfully fat boy— habited as a serving lad, standing upright on the mat, 
with his eves closed as if in sleep. He had never seen such a fat boy, in or out of 
a travelling caravan ; and this, coupled with the calmness and repose of his 
appearance^ so very different from what was reasonably to have been expected of 
the inflictei of such knocks, smote him with wonder. 

“ What’s the matter.?” inquired the clerk. 

The extraordinary boy replied not a word ; but he nodded once, and seemed, to 
the clerk’s imagination, to snore feebly. 

“ Where do you come from .?” inquired the clerk. 

The boy made no sign. He breathed heavily, but in all other respects was mo- 


The clerk repeated the question thrice, and receiving no answer, prepar^^d to 
shut the door, when the boy suddenly opened his e>es, wiiJced several times, 
sneezed once, and raised his hand as if to repeat the knocking ^^ding the door 
open, he stared about him with astonishment, and at lengtn tixed Ais eyes on Mr* 
Lovten’s face. 


The Pickwick Club. 


468 

** "WTiat the devil do you knock in that way for ?” inquired the tkrk, angrily. 

“Which way ?” said the boy, in a slow and sleepy voice. 

“ Why, like forty hackney-coachmen,” replied the clerk. 

“ Because master said, I wasn’t to leave off knocking till they cpened the door, 
for fear I should go to sleep,” said the boy. 

“ Well,” said the clerk “ what message have you brought ?” 

“ He’s down stairs,” rejoined the boy. 

“Who.?” 

“ Master. He wants to know whether you’re at home.” 

Mr. Lowten bethought himself, at this juncture, of looking out of the window. 
Seeing an open caniage with a hearty old gentleman in it, looking up very 
anxiously, he ventuied to beckon him; on which, the old gentleman jumped oul 
directly. 

“ That’s your master in the carnage, I suppose .?” said Lowten. 

The boy nodded. 

All further inquiries were superseded by the appearance of old Wardle, who, 
running up staiis and just recognising Lowten, passed at once into Mr. Perker’s 
room. 

“ Pickwick!” said the old gentleman. “Your hand, my boy! Why have I 
never heard until the day before yesterday of your suffering yourself to be cooped 
up in jail ? And why did you let him do it, Perker ,?” 

“ I couldn’t help it, my dear sir,” replied Perker, with a smile and a pinch of 
snuff : “ you know how obstinate he is.” 

“ Of course I do, of course I do,” replied the old gentleman. “I am heartily 
glad to see him, notwithstanding. I will not lose sight of him again, in a 
huriy.” 

With these words, Wardle shook Mr. Pickwick’s hand once more, and, having 
done the same by Perker, threw himself into an arm-chair; his jolly red face, 
shining again with smiles and health. 

“Well!” said Wardle. “Here are pretty goings on — a pinch of your snuff, 
Perker, my boy — never were such times, eh .?” 

“ What do you mean ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Mean ! ” replied Wardle. “ Why, I think the girls are all running mad ; that’s 
no news, you ’ll say ? Perhaps it’s not ; but it’s true, for all that.” 

“ You have not come up to London, of all places in the world, to tell us 
my dear sir, have you .?” inquired Perker. 

“ No, not altogether,” replied Wardle ; “ though it was the main cause of my 
coming. How’s Arabella .?” 

“Very well,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “ and will be delighted to see you, I am sure.” 

“ Black-eyed little jilt !” replied Wardle, “ I had a great idea of marrying her 
myself, one of these odd days. But I am glad of it too, very glad.” 

“ How did the intelligence reach you .?” asked Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Oh, it came to my girls, of course,” replied Wardle. “Arabella wrote, the 
day before yesterday, to say she had made a stolen match without her husband’s 
father’s consent, pd so you had gone down to get it when his refusing it couldnH 
prevent the match, and all the rest of it. I thought it a veiy good time to say 
something serious to mjy girls ; so I said what a dreadful thing it was that chikhen 
should many without their parents’ consent, and so forth ; but, bless your hearts, 
I couldn’t make the least impression upon them. They thought it such a much 
more dreadful thing that there should have been a wedding without bridesmaids, 
that I might as well have preached to Joe himself.” 

Here the old gentleman stopped to laugh ; and having done so, to his heart’** 
content, presently resumed. 


More Marrying, ^ 69 

“ But this is not the best of it, it seems. This is only half the love-making and 
ploiting that have been going forward. We have been walldng on mines for the 
last six months, and thej ’re sprung at last.” 

“What do you mean ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwck, turning pale; “no other 
secret marriage, I hope 

“ No, no,” replied old Wardle ; “ not so bad as that ; no.” 

“ What then .?” inquired Mr. Pickwick ; “ am I interested in it ?” 

“ Shall I answer that question, Perker .?” said Wardle. 

“ If you don’t commit yourself by doing so, my dear sir.” 

“_^Well then, you are,” said Wardle. 

“"How asked Mr. Pickwick anxiously. “ In what way ?” 

“ Really,” replied Wardle, “ you’re such a fieiy sort of young fellow that I am 
almost afraid to tell you ; b.it, however, if Perker will sit between us to prevent 
mischief. I’ll venture.” 

Having closed the room-door, and fortified himself with another application to 
Perker’s snulf-box, the old gentleman proceeded with his great disclosure in these 
words. 

“ The fact is, that my daughter Bella — Bella, who married young Trundle, you 
know.” 

“Yes, yes, we know,” said Mr. Pickwick impatiently. 

“ Don’t alai-m me at the very beginning. My daughter Bella, Emily ha\nng 
gone to bed with a headache after she had read Arabella’s letter to me, sat her- 
self down by my side the other evening, and began to talk over this marriage 
afi'air. ‘ Well, pa,’ she says, ‘ what do you think of it ?’ ‘ Why, my dear,’ I said, 
‘I suppose it’s all very well ; I hope it’s for the best.’ I answered in this way 
because I was sitting before the fire at the time, drinking my grog rather thought- 
fully, and I knew my throwing in an undecided word now and then, would induce 
her to continue talking. Both my girls are pictures of their dear mother, and as I 
grow old I like to sit with only them by me ; for their voices and looks carry me 
back to the happiest period of my life, and make me, for the moment, as young 
as I used to be then, though not quite so light-hearted. ‘ It’s quite a marriage of 
affection, pa,’ said Bella, after a short silence. ‘ Yes, my dear,’ said I, ‘ but such 
marriages do not always turn out the happiest.’ ” 

“ I question tlrat, mind ! ” interposed Mr. Pickwick, warmly. 

“ Very good,” responded Wardle, “ question anything you like when it’s yoo 
turn to speak, but don’t interrupt me.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Granted,” replied Wardle. “ ‘ I am sony to hear you express your opinioP 
against marriages of affection, pa,’ said Bella, colouring a little. ‘ I was wrong ; 
I ought not to have said so, my dear, either.’ said I, patting her cheek as kindly 
as- a rough old fellow like me could pat it, ‘ for your mother’s was one, and so was 
yours.’ ‘ It’s not that, I meant, pa,’ said Bella. ‘The fact is, pa, I wanted to 
speak to you about Emily.’ ” 

M r. Pickwick started. 

“ What’s the matter now inquired Wardle, stopping in his narrative. 

“ Nothing,” repliel Mr. Pickwick. “ Pray go on.” 

“ I never could spin out a story,” said Wardle abruptly. “ It must come out, 
sooner or later, and it ’ll save us all a great deal of time if it comes at once. The long 
and the short of it is, then, that Bella at last mustered up courage to tell me that 
Emily was very unhappy ; that she and your young friend Snodgrass had been in 
constant correspondence and communication ever since last Christmas ; that she 
had very dutifully made up her mind to run away with him, in laudable imitation of 
her old friend and schoolfellow ; but ’iiat having some compunctions of tmiscience 


470 


The Pickwick Club, 


on the subject, inasmuch as I had always been rather kindly disposed to both of 
them, they had thought it better in the first instance to pay me the compliment ol 
asking whether I would have any objection to their being mairied in the usual 
matter-of-fact manner. There noM% INIr. Pickwick, if you can make it convenient 
to reduce your eyes to their usual size again, and to let me hear what you think we 
ought to do, I shall feel rather obliged to you ! ” 

The testy manner in which the hearty old gentleman uttered this last sentence 
was not wholly unwarranted ; for Mr. Pickwick’s face had settled down into an 
expression of blank amazement and perplexity, quite curious to behold. 

“ Snodgrass ! Since last Christmas !” were the first broken words that issued 
from the lips of the confounded gentleman. 

“ Since last Christmas,” replied Wardle ; “ that’s plain enough, and very bad 
spectacles we must have worn, not to have discovered it before.” 

“I don’t understand it,” said Mr. Pickwick, niminating; “I really cannot 
understand it.” 

“ It’s easy enough to understand,” replied the choleric old gentleman. “ If you 
had been a younger man, you would have been in the secret long ago ; and 
besides,” added Wardle after a moment’s hesitation, “ the truth is, that, knowing 
nothing of this matter, I have rather pressed Emily for four or five months past, 
to receive favourably (if she could ; I would never attempt to force a girl’s inclina- 
tions) the addresses of a young gentleman down in our neighbourhood. I have 
no doubi that, girl-like, to enhance her own value and increase the ardour of Mr. 
Snodgrass, she has represented this matter in very glowing colours, and that they 
have both arrived at the conclusion that they are a terribly persecuted pair of un- 
fortunates, and have no resource but clandes.ine matrimony or charcoal. Now the 
question is, what’s to be done } ” 

“ What have ww done ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

I !” 

“ I mean what did you do when your married daughter told you this 

“ Oh, I made a fool of myself of course,” rejoined Wardle. 

“Just so,” interposed Perker, who had accompanied this dialogue with sundry 
twitchings of his watch-chain, vindictive iiibbings of his nose, and other symptoms 
of impatience. “ Tnat’s veiy natural ; but how 

“ I went into a great passion and frightened my mother into a fit,” said Wardle. 

“ That was judicious,” remarked Perker ; “ and what else .^” 

“ I fretted and fumed all next day, and raised a great disturbance,” rejoined the 
old gentleman. “ At last I got tired of rendering myself unpleasant and making 
everybody miserable ; so I hired a carriage at Muggleton, and, putting my own 
horses in it, came up to town, under pretence of bringing Emily to see Arabella.” 

“ Miss Wardle is with you, then said Mr. Pickwick. 

“To be sure she is,” replied Wardle. “She is at Osborne’s hotel in thr 
A.delphi at this moment, unless your enterprising friend has run away with her 
s ince I came out this morning.” 

“ You are reconciled, then said Perker. 

“ Not a bit of it,” answered Wardle ; “ she has been crying and moping ever 
since, except last night, between tea and supper, when she made a great parade 
writing a letter that I pretended to take no notice of.” 

“ You want my advice in this matter, I suppose ?’* said Perker, looking from 
the musing face of Mr. Pickwick to the eager countenance of Wardle, and taking 
leveral consecutive pinches of his favourite stimulant. 

“I suppose so,” said Wardle, looking at Mr. Pickwick. 

Certainl)',” replied that gentleman. 

••Well then,” said Perker, rising and pushing hi^ chair back, “my advice is, 


The Fat Boy sees a Sight. 


47 * 


you both walk ^ay together, or ride away, or get away by sonae acans or 
other, for I ’m tired of you, and just talk this matter over between you. If you 
have not settled it by the next time I see you, I ’ll tell you what to do.’^ 

“This is satisfactory,” said Wardle, hardly knowing whether to smile or b« 
offended. 

“ Pooh, pooh, my dear sir,” returned Perker. “ I know you both a great deal 
better than you know yourselves. You have settled it already, to all intents and 
purposes.” 

Thus expressing himsel., the little gentleman poked his snuff-box, first into the 
chest of Mr. Pickwick, and then into the waistcoat of Mr. Wardle, upon which 
they all three laughed, but espiecially the two last-named gentlemen, who at once 
shook hands again, without any obvious or particular reason. 

“ You dine with me to-day,” said Wardle to Perker, as he showed them out. 

“ Can’t promise, my dear sir, can’t promise,” replied Perker. “ I ’ll look hi, in 
the evening, at all events.” 

“ I shall expect you at five,” said Wardle. “ Now, Joe ! ” And Joe having 
been at length awakened, the two friends departed in Mr. Wardle’s carriage, which 
in common humanity had a dickey behind for the fat boy, who, if there had been 
a foot-board instead, would have rolled off and killed himself in his very first 

nap. 

Driving to the George and Vulture, they found that Arabella and her maid had 
sent for a hackney-coach immediately on the receipt of a short note from Emily an- 
nouncing her arrival in town, and had proceeded straight to the Adelphi. As Wardle 
had business to transact in the city, they sent the carriage and the fat boy to his 
hotel, with the information that he and Mr. Pickwick would return together to 
dinner at five o’clock. 

Charged with this message, the fat boy returned, slumbering as peaceably in his 
dickey, over the stones, as if it had been a down bed on watch-springs. By some 
extraordinary miracle he awoke of his own accord, when the coach stopped, and 
giving himself a good shake to stir up his faculties, went up stairs to execute his 


commission. 

Now, whether the shake had jumbled the fat boy’s faculties together, instead of 
arranging them in proper order, or had roused such a quantity of new ideas within 
him as to render him oblivious of ordinary forms and ceremonies, or (which is 
also possible) had proved unsuccessful in preventing his falling asleep as he 
ascended the stairs, it is an undoubted fact that he walked into the sitting-room 
without previously knocking at the door ; and so beheld a gentleman with his 
arms clasping his young mistress’s waist, sitting very lovingly by her side on a 
sofa, while Arabella and her pretty handmaid feigned to be absorbed in looking 
out of a window at the other end of the room. At sight of this phenomenon, the 
fat boy uttered an interjection, the ladies a scream, and the gentleman an oath, 
almost simultaneously. ^ • 

“ Wretched creature, what do you want here said the gentleman, who it is 
needless to say was Mr. Snodgrass. _ _ 

To this the fat boy, considerably terrified, briefly responded, “ Missis.’ 

“ What do you want me for ? ” inquired Emily, turning her head aside, “ you 

stupid cieature ! ” ^ . t. 

** Master and Mr. Pickwick is a going to dine here at five, replied the fat boy. 

Leave the room ! ” said Mr. Snodgrass, glaring upon the bewildered youth. 

“ No, no, no,” added Emily hastily. “ Bella, dear, advise me.” 

Upon this, Emily and Mr. Snodgrass, and Arabella and Maiy, crowded mto 
A corner, and conversed earnestly in whispers lor soin» m.inutes, during which the 
fat boy dozed. 


The Pickwick Club. 


^ 7 ^ 

“Joe,” said Arabella, at length, looking round with a most bewitching smile, 
“low do you do, Joe?” 

•• Joe,” said Emily, “ you ’re a very good boy ; I won’t forget you, Joe.” 

“Joe,” said ]Mr. Snodgrass, advancing to the astonished youth, and seizing his 
hand, “ I didn’t know you before. There ’s five shillings for you, Joe ! ” 

“I’ll owe you five, Joe,” said Ajrabella, “for old acquaintance sake, you 
know;” and another most captivating smile was bestowed upon the corpulent 
intruder. 

"I'lie fat boy’s perception being slow, he looked rather puzzled at first to account 
for this sudden prepossession in his favour, and stared about him in a very alarming 
manner. At length his broad face began to show symptoms of a grin of propor- 
tionately broad dimensions ; and then, thrusting half-a-crown into each of his 
pockets, and a hand and wrist after it, he burst into a horse laugh : being for the 
first and only time in his existence. 

“ He understands us, I see,” said Arabella. 

“ He had better have something to eat, immediately,” remarked Emily. 

The fat boy almost laughed again when he heard this suggestion. Mary, after 
a little more whispering, tripped forth from the group, and said : 

“ I am going to dine with you to-day, sir, if you have no objection.” 

“ This way,” said the fat boy, eagerly. “ There is such a jolly meat pie !” 

With these words, the fat boy led the way down stairs ; his pretty companion 
captivating all the waiters and angering aU the chambermaids as she followed him 
to the eating-room. 

There was the meat-pie of which the youth had spoken so feelingly, and there 
were, moreover, a steak, and a dish of potatoes, and a pot of porter. 

“ Sit down,” said the fat boy. “ Oh, my eye, how prime ! I am go hungry.” 

Having apostrophised his eye, in a species of rapture, five or six times, the 
youth took the head of the little table, and Maiy seated herself at the bottom. 

“ Will you have some of this ?” said the fat boy, plunging into the pie up to the 
very ferules of the knife and fork. 

“ A little, if you please,” replied Mary, 

The fat boy assisted Mary to a little, and himself to a great deal, and was just 
going to begin eating when he suddenly laid down his knife and fork, leant for- 
ward in his chair, and letting his hands, with the knife and fork in them, fall 
on his knees, said, very slowly : 

“ I say ! How nice you look !” 

This was said in an admiring manner, and was, so far, gratifying ; but still there 
was enough of the cannibal in the young gentleman’s eyes to render tlie compli- 
ment a double one. 

“ Dear me, Joseph,” said Maiyq affecting to blush, “ what do you mean ?” 

The fat boy gradually recovering his former position, replied with a heavy sigh, 
and remaining thoughtful for a few moments, drank a long draught of the porter. 
Having achieved this feat he sighed again, and applied himself assiduously t:) 
the pie. 

“ What a nice young lady Miss Emily is !” said Mary, after a long silence. 

The fat boy had by this time finished the pie. He fixed his eyes on Mary, and 
replied ; 

“I knows a nicerer.” 

“ Indeed ! ” said Mary. 

“Yes, indeed !” replied the fat boy, with unwonted vivacity, 

“ What’s her nan e ?” inquired Mary. 

“ What’s yours ?’ 

•< Mary.” 


Tender as well as Fat. 


473 


So‘s her’s,” said the fat boy. “ You’re her.” The boy giinned to add point 
to the compliment, and put his eyes into something between a squint and a cast, 
which there is reason to believe he intended for an ogle. 

“ You musn’t talk to me in that way,” said Mary ; “ you don’t mean it.” 

“ Don’t I though replied the fat boy ; “ I say ! ” 

“ W ell.” 

“ Are you going to come here regular ?” 

“ No,” rejoined Mary, shaking her head, “ I’m going away again to night. 
Why } ” 

“ Oh I ” said the fat boy in atone of strong feeling; “how we should have 
enjoyed ourselves at meals, if you had been ! ” 

“ I might come here sometimes perhaps, to see you,” said Mary, plaiting the 
table-cloth in assumed coyness, “ if you would do me a favour.” 

The fat boy looked from the pie-dish to the steak, as if he thought a favour 
must be in a manner connected with something to eat ; and then took out one of 
the half-crowns and glanced at it neiwously. 

“ Don’t you understand me ?” said Maiy, looking slyly in his fat face. 

Again he looked at the half-crown, and said faintly, “ No.” 

“ The ladies want you not to say anything to the old gentleman about the 
young gentleman having been up stairs ; and I want you too.” 

“Is that all.? ” said the fat boy, evidently veiy much relieved as he pocketed 
the half-crown again. “ Of course I ain’t a going to.” 

“ You see,” said Maiy, “ Mr. Snodgrass is very fond of Miss Emily, and Miss 
Emily’s very fond of him, and if you were to tell about it, the old gentleman 
would carry you all away miles into the country, where you’d see nobody.” 

“ No, no, I won’t tell,” said the fat boy, stoutly. 

“ That’s a dear,” said Mary. “ Now it’s time I went up stairs, and got my 
lady ready for dinner.” ‘ 

“ Don’t go yet,” urged the fat boy. 

“ I must,” replied Mary. “ Good bye, for the present.” 

The fat boy, with elephantine playfulness, stretched out his arms to ravish a 
kiss ; but as it required no gi eat agility to elude him, his fair enslaver had vanished 
before he closed them again •• upon which the apathetic youth ate a pound or so of 
steak with a sentimental countenance, and fell fast asleep. 

There was so much to say up stairs, and there were so many plans to concert 
for elopement and matrimony in the event of old Wardle continuing to be cruel, 
that it wanted only half an hour of dinner when Mr. Snodgrass took his final adieu. 
The ladies ran to Emily’s bedroom to dress, and the lover taking up his hat, 
walked out of the room. He had scarcely got outside the door, when he heard 
Wardle’s voice talking loudly, and looking over the banisters, beheld him, fol- 
lowed by some other gentlemen, coming straight up stairs. Knowing nothing of 
(he house, Mr. Snodgrass in his confusion stepped hastily back into the room he 
had just quitted, and passing from thence into an inner apartment (Mr. Wardle’s 
bed-chamber), closed the door softly, just as the persons he had caught a glimpse 
of, enteied the sitting-room. These were Mr. Wardle, Mr. Pickwick, Mr. 
Nathaniel Winkle, and Mr. Benjamin Allen, whom he, had no difficulty in recog- 
nising by their voices. 

“Very' lucky I had the presence of mind to avoid them,” thought Mr. Snod- 
grass with a smile, and walking on tiptoe to another door near the bedside; 
“this opens into the sayixe passage, and I can wallc, quietly and comfortably, 
away.” 

There was only one obstacle to his walking quietly and comfortably away, which 
wais that the dc or was locked and the key gone. 


474 


The Pickwick Club, 


“ Let us have some of your best wine to-day, waiter,” said old Wardle, rub- 
bing his hands. 

“You shall have some of the very best, sir,” replied the waiter. 

“ Let the ladies know we have come in.” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

Devoutly and ardently did Mr. Snodgrass wish that the ladies oould know he 
had come in. He ventured once to whisper “ Waiter ! ” through the keyhole, but 
as the probability of the wrong waiter coming to his relief, flashed upon his mind, 
together with a sense of the strong resemblance between his own situation and 
that in which another gentleman had been recently found in a neighbouring hotel 
(an account of whose misfortunes had appeared under the head of “ Police” in 
that morning’s paper), he sat himself on a portmanteau, and trembled violently. 

“ We won’t wait a minute for Perker,” said Wardle, looking at his watch ; “ he 
is always exact. He will be here, in time, if he means to come ; and if he does 
not, it’s of no use waiting. Ha ! Arabella ! ” 

“ My sister !” exclaimed Mr. Benjamin Allen, folding her in a most romantic 
embrace. 

“ Oh, Ben, dear, how you do smell of tobacco,” said Arabella, rather overcome 
by this mark of affection. 

“ Do I said Mr. Benjamin Allen, “ Do I, Bella } Well, perhaps I do.” 

Perhaps he did ; having just left a pleasant little smoking party of twelve 
medical students, in a small back parlour with a large fire. 

“ But I am delighted to see you,” said Mr. Ben Allen. “Bless you, Bella !” 

“ There,” said Arabella, bending forward to kiss her brother ; “ don’t take hold 
of me again, Ben dear, because you tumble me so.” 

At this point of the reconciliation, Mr. Ben Allen allowed his feelings and the 
cigars and porter to overcome him, and looked round upon the beholders with 
damp spectacles. 

“ Is nothing to be said to me ?” cried Wardle with open arms. 

“ A great deal,” whispered Arabella, as she received the old gentleman’s hearty 
caress and congratulation. “ You are a hard-hearted, unfeeling, cruel, monster !” 

“ You are a little rebel,” replied Wardle, in the same tone, “and I am afraid 
I shall be obliged to forbid you the house. People like you, who get married in 
spite of everj’body, ought not to be let loose on society. But come ! ” added the 
old gentleman aloud, “ Here’s the dinner; you shall sit by me. Joe ; why, damn 
the boy, he’s awake ! ” 

To the great distress of his master, the fat boy was indeed in a state of remark- 
able vigilance ; his eyes being wide open, and looking as if they intended to remain 
so There was an alacrity in his manner, too, which was equally unaccountable ; 
eve!-)- time his eyes met those of Emily or Arabella, he smirked and grinned ; once, 
Wardle could have sworn he saw him wink. 

This alteration in the fat boy’s demeanour, originated in his increased sense of 
his own importance, and the dignity he acquired from having been taken into the 
confidence of the young ladies ; and the smirks, and grins, and winks, were so 
many condescending assurances that they might depend upon his fidelity. As 
these tokens were rather calculated to awaken suspicion than allay it, and were 
somewhat embarrassing besides, they were occasionally answered by a frown or 
shake of the head from Arabella, which the fat boy considering as hints to be on 
his guard, expressed his perfect understanding of, by smirking, grinning, and 
winking, with redoubled assiduity. 

“ Joe,” said Mr. Wardle, after an unsuccessful search in all his pockets, “is 
snuft-box on the sofa ?” 

“No, sir,” replied the fat boy 


Mysterious as well as Tender, 475 


“Oh, I recollect; I left it on my dressing-table this mojning,” said Wardle. 
“Run into the next room and fetch it.” 

The fat boy went into the next room ; and having been absent about a minute, 
returned with the snuff-box, and the palest face that ever a fat boy wore. 

“ What’s the matter with the boy ! ” exclaimed Wardle. 

“ Nothen’s the matter with me,” replied Joe, neiwously. 

“ Have you been seeing any spirits inquired the old gentleman. 

“ Or taking any ?” added Ben Allen. 

“I think you’re right,” whispered Wardle across the table. “He is intoxi- 
cated, I’m sure.” 

Ben Allen replied that he thought he was ; and as that gentleman had seen a 
vast deal of the disease in question, Wardle was confirmed in an impression which 
had been hovering about his mind for half an hour, and at once arrived at the 
conclusion that the fat boy was drunk. 

“ Just keep your eye upon him for a few minutes,” murmured Wardle. “ We 
shall soon find out whether he is or not.” 

The unfortunate youth had only interchanged a dozen words with Mr. Snod- 
grass : that gentleman having implored him to make a private appeal to some 
friend to release him, and then pushed him out with the snuff-box, lest his pro- 
longed absence should lead to a discovery. He ruminated a little with a most 
disturbed expression of face, and left the room in search of Mary. 

But Mary had gone home after dressing her mistr ess, and the fat boy came 
back again more disturbed than before. 

Wardle and Mr. Ben Allen exchanged glances. 

“ Joe ! ” said Wardle. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ What did you go away for ?” 

The fat boy looked hopelessly in the face of everybody at table, and stammered 
out, that he didn’t know. 

“Oh,” said Wardle, “you don’t know, eh.? Take this cheese to Mr. 
Pickwick.” 

Now, Mr. Pickwick being in the very best health and spirits, had been making 
himself perfectly delightful all dinner-time, and was at this moment engaged in 
an energetic conversation with Emily and Mr. Winkle : bowing his head, cour- 
teously, in the emphasis of his discourse, gently waving his left hand to lend force 
to his observations, and all glowing with placid smiles. He took a piece of 
cheese from the plate, and was on the point of turning round to renew the con- 
versation, when the fat boy, stooping so as to bring his head on a level with that 
of Mr. Pickwick, pointed with his thumb over his shoulder, and made the most 
horrible and hideous face that was ever seen out of a Christmas pantomime. 

“ Dear me ! ” said Mr. Pickwick, starting, “ what a very — eh .?” He stopped, 
for the fat boy had drawn himself up, and was, or pretended to be, fast asleep. 

“ What’s the matter .?” inquired Wardle. 

“This is such an extremely singular lad!” replied Mr. Pickwick, looldng 
uneasily at the boy. “It seems an odd thing to say, but upon my word I am 
afraid that, at times, he is a little deranged.” 

“Oh! Mr. Pickwick, pray don’t say so,” cried Emily and Arabella, both 
at once. 

“lam not certain, of course,” said Mr. Pickwick, amidst profound silence, and 
looks of general dismay ; “but his manner to me this moment was really veiy 
alarming. Oh I ” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, suddenly jumping up with a short 
scream. “I beg yom pardon, ladies, but at that moment he ran some shaip 
instrument into my leg. Really he is not safe.” 


470 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ He’s drunk,” roared old Wardle, passionately. “Ring the bell! Call the 
waiters! He’s drank.” 

“ I ain’t,” said the fat boy, falling on his knees as his master seized him by the 
collar. “ I ain’t drank.” 

“Then you’re mad ; that’s worse. Call the waiters,” said the old gentleman. 

“ I ain’^ mad ; I’m sensible,” lejoined the fat boy, beginning to cry. 

“ Then, what the devil do you ran sharp instruments into Mr. Pickwick’s legs 
for?” inquired Wardle, angrily. 

“ He wouldn't look at me,” replied the boy. “ I wanted to speak to him.” 

“ What did you want to say ? ” asked half a dozen voices at once. 

The fat boy gasped, looked at the bedroom door, gasped again, and wiped two 
tears away with the knuckle of each of his forefingers. 

“What did you want to say ? ” demanded Wardle, shaking him. 

“ Stop !” said Mr. Pickwick; “allow me. What did you wish to communi- 
cate to me, my poor boy ? ” 

“ I want to whisper to you,” replied the fat boy. 

“You want to bite his ear off, I suppose,” said Wardle. “Don’t come near 
him ; he’s vicious ; ring the bell, and let him be taken down stairs.” 

Just as Mr. Winkle caught the bell-rope in his hand, it was arrested by a general 
expression of astonishment ; the captive lover, his face burning with confusion, 
suddenly walked in from the bedroom, and made a comprehensive bow to the 
company. 

“ Hallo ! ” cried Wardle, releasing the fat boy’s collar, and staggering back, 
“ What’s this I ” 

“ I have been concealed in the next room, sir, since you returned,” explained 
Mr. Snodgrass. 

“ Emily, my girl,” said Wardle, reproachfully, “ I detest meanness and deceit ; 
this is unjustifialile and indelicate in the highest degree. I don’t deserve this at 
your hands, Emily, indeed I ” 

“Dear papa,” said Emily, “Arabella knows — every'body here knows — Joe 
knows — that I was no party to this concealment. Augustus, for Heaven’s sake, 
explain it ! ” 

Mr. Snodgrass, who had only waited for a hearing, at once recounted how he 
had been placed in his then distressing predicament ; how the fear of giving rise 
to domestic dissensions had alone prompted him to avoid Mr. Wardle on his 
entrance ; how he merely meant to depart by another door, but, finding it 
locked, had been compelled to stay against his will. It was a painful situation to 
be placed in ; but he now regretted it the less, inasmuch as it afforded him at. 
opportunity of acknowledging, before their mutual friends, that he loved Mr. 
Wardle’s daughter, deeply and sincerely; that he was proud to avow that the 
feeling was mutual ; and that if thousands of miles were placed between them, or 
oceans rolled their waters, he could never for an instant forget those happy days, 
when first —and so on. 

Having lelivered himself to this effect, Mr. Snodgrass bowed again, looked into 
the crown of his hat, and stepped towards the door. 

“ Stop !” shotted Wardle. “ Why, in the name of all that’s ” 

“ Inflammable,” mildly suggested Mr. Pickwick, who thought something worst 
was coming. 

“ Well — that’s inflammable,” said Wardle, adopting the substitute ; “ couldn’t 
you say all this to me in the first instance ?” 

“ Or confide in me ?” added Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Dear, dear,” said Arabella, taking up the defence, “what is the use of asking 
all that now, especially when you know you had set your covetous old heart on a 


Will of tne late Mrs. Weller. 


47 7 

richer son-in-law, and are so wild and fierce besides, that eveiybody is afraid of 
you, except me. Shake hands with him, and order him some dinner, for goodness 
gracious sake, for he looks half-starved ; and pray have your wine up at once, for 
you’ll not be tolerable until you have taken two bottles at least.” 

The worthy old gentleman pulled Arabella’s ear, kissed her without the smallest 
sciaiple, kissed his daughter also with great affection, and shook Mr. Snodgrass 
warmly by the hand. 

“ She is right on one point at all events,” said the old gentleman, cheerfully. 
“ Ring for the wine !” 

The wine came, and Perker came up stairs at the same moment. Mr. Snodgrass 
had dinner at a side table, and, when he had despatched it, drew his chair next 
Emily, without the smallest opposition on the old gentleman’s part. 

The evening was excellent. Little Mr. Perker came out wonderfully, told 
various comic stories, and sang a serious song which was almost as funny as the 
anecdotes. Arabella was very charming, Mr. Wardle very jovial, Mr. Pickwick 
veiy harmonious, Mr. Ben Allen very uproarious, the lovers very silent, Mr. 
Winlde very talkative, and all of them veiy happy. 


CHAPTER LV. 

MR. SOLOMON PELL, ASSISTED BY A SELECT COMMITTEE OF COACHMEN, 
ARRANGES THE AFFAIRS OF THE ELDER MR. WELLER. 

Samivel,” said Mr. Weller, accosting his son on the morning after the 
funeral, “ I’ve found it, Sammy. I thought it wos there.” 

“ Thought wot wos were .?” inquired Sam. 

“Your mother-in-law’s vill, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller. “In wirtue o’ 
vich, them arrangements is to be made as I told you on, last night, respectin’ the 
funs.” 

“ Wot, didn’t she tell you were it wos inquired Sam. 

“Not a bit on it, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller. “We wos a adjestin’ our 
little differences, and I wos a cheerin’ her spirits and bearin’ her up, so that I 
forgot to ask anythin’ about it. I don’t know as I should ha’ done it indeed, if I 
had remembered it,” added Mr. Weller, “ for it’s a rum sort o’ thing, Sammy, 
to go a hankerin’ arter anybody’s property, ven you’re assistin’ ’em in illness. It’s 
like helping an outside passenger up, ven he’s been pitched off a coach, and 
puttin’ your hand in his pocket, vile you ask him vith a sigh how he finds his- 
self, Sammy.” 

With this figurative illustration of his meaning, Mr. Weller unclasped his 
pocket-book, and drew forth a dirty sheet of letter paper, on which were inscribed 
various characters crowded together in remarkable confusion. 

“ This here is the dockyment, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “I found it in the 
little black teapot, on the top shelf o’ the bar closet. She used to keep bank 
notes there, ’afore she vos married, Samivel. I ’ve seen her take the lid off, to 
pay a bill, many and many a time. Poor creeter, she might ha’ filled all the tea- 
pots in the house vith wlls, and not have inconwenienced herself neither, for she 
took weiy little of anythin’ in that vay lately, ’cept on the Temperance nights, ven 
they just laid a foundation o’ tea to put the spirits a-top on !” 

“ \Yhat does it say ?” inquired Sam. 

<<Jist vot I toM you, my boy,” rejoined his parent. “Two hundred pound 


478 


The Pickwick CluO. 


vurth o’ reduced counsels to my son-in-law, Samivel, and all the rest o’ my pro- 
perty, of ev’ry kind and description votsoever to my husband, Mr. Tony Veller, 
who I appint as my '^ole eggzekiter.” 

“ That’s all, is it ?” said Sam. 

“ That’s all,” replied Mr. Weller. “ And I s’posc as it’s all light and satis- 
factoiy to you and me as is the only parties interested, ve may as veil put this bit 
o’ paper into the fire.” 

“ Wot are you a-doin’ on, you lunatic said Sam, snatching the paper away, 
as his parent, in all innocence, stirred the fire preparatory to suiting the action to 
the word, “ You’re a nice eggzekiter, you are.” 

“ Vy not inquired Mr. Weller, looking stemly round, with the poker in his 
hand. 

“ Vy not ! ” exclaimed Sam. “ ’Cos it must be proved, and probated, and swore 
to, and all manner o’ formalities.” 

“You don’t mean that said Mr. Weller, laying down the poker. 

Sam buttoned the will carefully in a side pocket ; intimating by a look, mean- 
while, that he did mean it, and very seriously too. 

“ Then I’ll tell you wot it is,” said Air. Weller, after a short meditation, “ this 
is a case for that ’ere confidential pal o’ the Chancellorship’s. Pell must look into 
this, Sammy. He’s the man for a difficult question at law. Ve’U have this here, 
brought afore the Solvent Court directly, Samivel.” 

“ I never did see such a addle-headed old cieetur !” exclaimed Sam, irritably, 
“ Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, and alleybis, and ev’ry species o’ gammon 
alvays a runnin’ through his brain ! You’d better get your out o’ door clothes on, 
and come to town about this bisness, than stand a preachin’ there about wot you 
don’t understand nothin’ on.” 

“ Wery good, Sammy,” replied Air, Weller, “ I ’m quite agreeable to anythin’ 
as vill hexpedite business, Sammy. But mind this here, my boy, nobody but 
Pell — nobody but Pell as a legal adwiser.” 

“ I don’t want anybody else,” replied Sam. “ Now, are you a-comin’ ?” 

“ Vait a minit, Sammy,” replied Air. Weller, who, having tied his shawl with 
the aid of a small glass that hung in the window, was now, by dint of the most 
wonderful exertions, struggling into his upper garments. “ Vait a minit, Sammy; 
ven you grow as old as your father, you von’t get into your veskit quite as easy as 
you do now, my boy,” 

“ If I couldn’t get into it easier than that, I’m blessed if I ’d vear vun at all,” 
rejoined his son. 

“ You think so now,” said Air. Weller, with the gravity of age, “ but you ’ll find 
that as you get vider, you ’ll get viser. Vidth and visdom, Sammy, alvays grow's 
together.” 

As Air. Weller, delivered this infallible maxim — the result of many years’ 
personal experience and observation - he contrived, by a dexterous twist of his 
body, to get the bottom button of his coat to perform its office. Having paused 
a few seconds to recover breath, he brushed his hat with his elbow, and declared 
himself ready. 

“ As four heads is better than two, Sammy,” said Air. Weller, as they drove 
along the London Road in the chaise cart, “ and as all this here property is a 
wery great temptation to a legal gen’l’m’n, ve’ll take a couple o’ friends o' mine vitb 
us. as ’ll be wery soon d(^wn upon him if he comes anythin’ irreg’lar ; two o’ them 
as saw you to the Fleet that day. They ’re the wery best judges,” added Air. 
Weller in a half whisper, “ the wery best judges of a horse, you ever know’d.” 

“ And of a lawyer too ? ” inquired Sam. 

“ The man as can form a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a ackerate 


Farther Glimpses of Mr. Pell. 479 

judgment of anythin’,” replied his father; so dogmatically, that Sam did i.ot 
attempt to controvert the position. 

In pursuance of this notable resolution, the services of the mottled-faced gentle- 
man and of two other very fat coachir ?n — selected by Mr. Weller, probably, 
with a view to their width and consequent wisdom — were put into requisition ; 
and this assistance having been secured, the party proceeded to the public- 
house in Portugal Street, whence a messenger was despatched to the Insolvent 
Court over the way, requiring Mr. Solomon Pell’s immediate attendance, 

The messenger lortunately found Mr. Solomon Pell in court, regaling himselt, 
business being rather slack, with a cold collation of an Abernethy biscuit and a 
saveloy. The message was no sooner whispered in his ear than he thrust them 
in his pocket among various professional documents, and hurried over the way 
with such alacrity, that he reached the parlour before the messenger had even 
emancipated himself from the court. 

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Pell, touching his hat, “my service to you all. I 
don’t say it to flatter you, gentlemen, but there are not five other men in the 
world, that I’d have come out of that court for, to-day.” 

“ So busy, eh said Sam. 

“ Busy !” replied Pell ; “ I’m completely sewn up, as my friend the late Lord 
Chancellor many, a time used to say to me, gentlemen, when he came out from 
hearing appeals in the House of Lords. Poor fellow ! he was very susceptible 
of fatigue ; he used to feel those appeals uncommonly. I actually thought more 
than once that he’d have sunk under ’em ; I did indeed.” 

Here Mr. Pell shook his head and paused; on which, the elder Mr. Weller, 
nudging bis neighbour, as begging him to mark the attorney’s high connections, 
asked whether the duties in question produced any permanent ill effects on the 
constitution of his noble friend. 

“ I don’t think he ever quite recovered them,” replied Pell ; “ in fact I’m sure he 
never did. ‘ Pell,’ he used to say to me many a time, ‘ how the blazes you can 
stand the head-work you do, is a mystery to me.’ — ‘Well,’ I used to answer, ‘ J 
hardly know how I do it, upon my life.’ — ‘ Pell,’ he’d add, sighing, and looking 
at me with a little envy — friendly envy, you know, gentlemen, mere friendly envy ; 
I never minded it — ‘ Pell, you’re a wonder ; a wonder.’ Ah! you’d have liked 
him very much if you had known him, gentlemen. Bring me three penn’orth of 
rum, my dear.” 

Addressing this latter remark to the waitress in a tone of subdued grief, Mr. 
Pell sighed, looked at his shoes, and the ceiling : and, the rum having by that 
time arrived, drunk it up. 

“ However,” said Pell, drawing a chair to the table, “ a professional man has 
no right to think of his private friendships when his legal assistance is wanted. 
By the bye, gentlemen, since I saw you here before, we have had to weep over 
a very melancholy occurrence.” 

Mr. Pell drew out a pocket-handkerchief, when he came to the word weep, but 
he made no further use of it than to wipe away a slight tinge of rum which hung 
upon his upper lip. 

“ I saw it in the Advertiser, Mr. Weller,” continued PeU. “ Bless my soul, 
not more than fifty-two ! Dear me — only think.” 

These indications of a musing spirit were addressed to the mottled-faced man, 
whose eyes Mr. Pell had accidentally caught ; on which, the mottled-faced man, 
whose apprehension of matters in general was of a foggy nature, moved uneasily in 
his seat, and opined that indeed, so far as that went, there was no saying how things 
was brought about ; which observation, involving one of those subtle propositions 
whiCh it is difficijlt to encounter in argument, was controverted by nobody. 


480 


The Pickwick Club. 


“ I have heard it remarked that she was a very fine woman, Mr. Weller,” said 
Pell in a sympathising manner. 

“Yes, sir, she wos,” replied the elder Mr. Weller, not much relishing this mode 
of discussing the subject, and yet thinking that the attorney, from his long intimacy 
with the late Lord Chancellor, must know best on all matters of polite breeding. 
“ She wos a wery fine ’ooman, sir, ven I first know’d her. She wos a widder, 
sir, at that time.” 

“ Now, it’s curious,” said Pell, looking round with a sorrowful smile ; “ Mrs. 
Pell was a widow.” 

“ That’s very' extraordinary,” said the mottled-faced man. 

“Well, it is a curious coincidence,” said Pell. 

“Not at all,” gruffly remarked the elder Mr. Weller. “More widders is 
married than single wimin.” 

“Very good, very good,” said Pell, “you’re quite right, Mr. Weller. Mrs. 
Pell was a very elegant and accomplished woman ; her manners were the theme 
af universal admiration in our neighbourhood. I was proud to see that woman 
dance ; there was something so firm and dignified, and yet natural, in her motion. 
Her cutting, gentlemen, was simplicity itself. Ah ! well, well ! Excuse my asking 
tlie question, Mr. Samuel,” continued the attorney in a lower voice, “ was your 
mother-in-law tall } ” 

“Not wery,” replied Sam. 

“ Mrs. Pell was a tall figure,” said Pell, “ a splendid woman, with a noble shape, 
and a nose, gentlemen, formed to command and be majestic. She was very much 
attached to me — very much — highly connected, too. Her mother’s brother, gentle- 
men, failed for eight hundred pounds, as a Law Stationer.” 

“Veil,” said Mr. Weller, who had grown rather restless during this discussion, 
“ vith regard to bis’ness.” 

The word was music to Pell’s ears. He had been revolving in his mind whether 
any business was to be ti'ansacted, or whether he had been merely invited to 
partake of a glass of brandy and water, or a bowl of punch, or any similar pro- 
fessional compliment, and now the doubt was set at rest without his appearing at 
all eager for its solution. His eyes glistened as he laid his hat on the table, and 
*aid : 

“ What is, the business upon which — um ? Either of these gentlemen wish to go 
through the court ? We require an arrest ; a friendly arrest will do, you know ; 
ive are all friends here, I suppose 

“ Give me the dockyment, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, taking the will from his 
son, who appealed to enjoy the interview amazingly. “ Wot we rekvire, sir, is a 
probe o’ this here,” 

“ Probate, my dear sir, probate,” said Pell. 

“Well, sir,” replied Mr. Weller sharply, “probe and probe it, is wery much 
the same ; if you don’t understand wot I mean, sir, I dessay I can find them as 
d©es.” 

“No offence I hope, Mr. Weller,” said Pell, meekly. “You are the executor 
I see,” he added, casting his eyes over the paper. 

“lam, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“These other gentlemen, I presume, are legatees, are they.^” inquired Pell 
vith a congratulatoiy smile. 

“Sammy is a leg-at-easn,'* replied Mr. Weller; “these other gen’l’m’n is 
friends o’ mine, just come to see fair ; a kind of umpires.” 

“Oh!” said Pell, “very good. I have no objections, I’m sure. I shall want 
a matter of five pound of you before I begin, ha 1 ha I ha ! ” 

It being decided by the commiUee that the five pound might be advanced, Mr. 


Tes tarn 671 tary Business. 


V 4ler produced that sum ; after which, a long consultation about nothing par 
ti< alar, took place, in the course whereof Mr. Pell demonstrated to the perfect 
satisfaction of the gentlemen who saw fair, that unless the management of the 
business had been intrusted to him, it must all have gone wrong, for reasons 
not deal ly made out, but no doubt sufficient. This important point being des- 
patched, Mr. Pell refreshed himself with three chops, and liquids both malt and 
spirituous, at the expense of the estate ; and then they all went aw\iy to Doctors’ 
Commons. 

Tile next day, there was another visit to Doctors’ Commons, and a great to do 
with an attesting hostler, who, being inebriated, declined swearing anything but 
profane oaths, to the great scandal of a proctor and surrogate. Next week, there 
were more visits to Doctors’ Commons, and there was a visit to the Legacy Duty 
Oflice besides, and there were treaties entered into, for the disposal of the lease 
and business, and ratifications oi the same, and inventories to be made out, and 
lunches to be taken, and dinners to be eaten, and so many profitable things to be 
done, and such a mass of papers accumulated, that Mr. Solomon Pell, and the 
boy, and the blue bag to boot, all got so stout that scarcely anybody would have 
known them for the same man, boy, and bag, that had loitered aoout Portugal 
Street, a few days before. 

At length all these weighty matters being arranged, a day was fixed for selling 
out and tiansferring the stock, and of waiting with that view upon Wilkins 
Flasher, Esq., stock-broker, oi somewhere near the Bank, who had been recom- 
mended by Mr. Solomon Pell for the purpose. 

It was a kind of festive occasion, and the parties were attired accordingly. 
Ikir. Weller’s tops were newly cleaned, and his dress was arranged with peculiar 
care ; the mottled-faced gentleman wore at his button-hole a full-sized dahlia with 
several leaves ; and the coats of his two friends were adorned with nosegays o. 
laurel and other evergreens. All three were habited in strict holiday costume ; 
that is to say, they were wrapped up to the chins, and wore as many clothes as 
possible, which is, and has been, a stage-coachman’s idea of full dress ever since 
stage coaches were invented. 

Mr. Pell was waiting at the usual place of meeting at the ap})ointed time ; even 
Mr. Pell wore a pair of gloves and a clean shirt much frayed at the collar and 
wristbands by frequent washings. 

“ A quarter to two,” said Pell, looking at the parlour clock. “ If we are with 
Mr. Flasher at a quarter past, we shall just hit the best time.” 

“ What should you say to a drop o’ beer, gen’l’m’n ?” suggested tlae mottled- 
faced man. 

“ And a little bit o’ cold beef,” said the second coachman. 

“Ora oyster,” added the third, who was a hoarse gentleman, supported by 
veiy round legs. 

“ Hear, hear !” said Pell; “to congratulate Mr. Weller, on his coining into 
possession of his property : eh ? ha ! ha ! ” 

“ I’m quite agreeable, gen’l’m’n,” answered Mr. Weller. “ Sammy, pull the 
bell.” 

Sam complied; and the porter, cold beef, and oysters being promptly pro- 
duced, the lunch was done ample justice to. Where everybody took so active 
a part, it is almost invidious to make a distinction ; but if one individual 
evinced greater powers than another, it was the coachman with the hoarse 
voh.e, who took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters, without betraying 
tiie least emotion. 

“ Mr. Pell, sir,” said the elder Mr. Weller, stirring a glass of brandy and v/ater, 
of which one was placed before every gentleman when the oyster shells were 

I I 


482 


The Pickwick Club, 


removed ; “ Mr Pell, sir, it wos my intention to have proposed the inns on this 
occasion, but Samivel has vispered to me — ” 

Here Mr. Samuel Weller, who had silently eaten his oysters with tranquil 
smiles, cried “ Hear ! ” in a very loud voice. 

“ — Has vispered to me,” resumed his father, “ that it vould be better to de- 
mote the liquor to vishin’ you success and prosperity, and thankin’ you for the 
manner in which you’ve brought this here business through. Here’s your health, 
sir.” 

“Hold hard there,” interposed the mottled-faced gentleman, with sudden 
energy, “ your eyes on me, gen’l’m’n !” 

Saying this, the mottled-faced gentleman rose, as did the other gentlemen. 
The nmttled-faced gentleman reviewed the company, and slowly lifted his hand, 
upon which every man (including him of the mottled countenance) drew a long 
breath, and lifted his tumbler to his lips. In one instant the mottled-faced 
gentleman depressed his hand again, and every glass was set down empty. It 
is impossible to describe the thrilling effect produced by this striking cere- 
monv. At once dignified, solemn, and impressive, it combined every element of 
grandeur. 

“Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pell, “all I can say is, that such marks of 
confidence must be very gratifying to a professional man. I don’t wish to say 
anything that might appear egotistical, gentlemen, but I’m very glad, for your 
own sakes, that you came to me : that’s all. If you had gone to any low 
member of the profession, it’s my firm conviction, and I assure you of it as a 
fact, that you would have found yourselves in Queer Street before this. I could 
have wished my noble friend had been alive to have seen my management of 
this case. I don’t say it out of pride, but I think — however, gentlemen, I won’t 
trouble you with that. I’m generally to be found here, gentlemen, but if I’m 
not here, or over the way, that’s my address. You’ll find my terms very 
cheap and reasonable, and no man attends more to his clients than I do, and I 
hope I know a little of my profession besides. If you have any opportunity of 
recommending me to any of your friends, gentlemen, I shall be very much 
obliged to you, and so will they too, when they come to knoAv me. Your healths, 
gentlemen.” 

With this expression of his feelings, Mr. Solomon Pell laid three small written 
cards before Mr. W’'eller’s friends, and, looking at the clock again, feared it was 
time to be w'alking. Upon this hint Mr. Weller settled the biU, and, issuing 
forth, the executor, legatee, attorney, and umpires, directed their steps tow’ards 
the City. 

The office of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, of the Stock Exchange, was in a first 
floor up a court behind the Bank of England ; the house of Wilkins Flasher, 
Esquire, was at Brixton, Sun ey ; the horse and stanhope of Wilkins Flasher, 
Esquire, were at an adjacent livery stable ; the groom of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, 
was on his way to the West End to deliver some game ; the clerk of Wilkins 
Flasher, Esquire, had gone to his dinner ; and so Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, 
himself, cried, “Come in,” when Mr. Pell and his companions knocked at the 
counting-house door. 

“Good morning, sir,” said Pell, bowing obsequiously. “We want to make a 
little transfer, if you please.” 

“ Oh, come in, will you said Mr. Flasher. “ Sit down a minute ; I’ll attend 
to you directly.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Pell, “ there’s no hurry. Take a chair, Mr. 
Weller.” 

Mr. Weller took a chair, and Sam took a box, and the umpires took what they 


On the Stock Exchange, 


483 

could get, and looked at the almanack and one or two papers which were wafered 
against the wall, with as much open-eyed reverence as if they had been the finest 
efforts of the old masters. 

“Well, I’ll bet you half a dozen of claret on it ; come !” said Wilkins Flasher, 
Esquire, resuming the conversation to which Mr. Pell’s entrance had caused a 
momentary intenuption. 

This was addressed to a very smart young gentleman who wore his hat on his 
right whisker, and was lounging over the desk, killing flies with a ruler. Wilkins 
Flasher, Esquire, was balancing himself on tw’o legs of an office stool, spearing 
a wafer-box with a pen-knife, which he dropped every now and then with great 
dexterity into the very centre of a small red wafer that was stuck outside. Both 
gentlemen had very open waistcoats and very rolling collars, and very small 
boots, and very big rings, and very little watches, and very large guard chains, 
and symmetrical inexpressibles, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs. 

“ I never bet half a dozen,” said the other gentleman. “ I’ll take a dozen.” 

“ Done, Simmery, done ! ” said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 

“ P. P. mind,” observed the other. 

“ Of course,” replied Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, 
entered it in a little book, with a gold pencil-case, and the other gentleman 
entered it also, in another little book with another gold pencil-case. 

“ I see there’s a notice up this morning about Boffer,” observed Mr. Simmery. 
“ Poor devil, he’s expelled the house !” 

“ I’U bet you ten guineas to five, he cuts his throat,” said Willdns Flasher, 
Esquire. 

“ Done,” replied Mr. Simmery. 

Stop ! I bar,” said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, thoughtfully. “ Perhaps he 
may hang himself.” 

“ \ery good,” rejoined Mr. Simmery, pulling out the gold pencil-case again. 
“ I’ve no objection to take you that way. Say, makes away with himself.” 

“ Kills himself, in fact,” said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 

“ Just so,” replied Mr. Simmer}^ putting it down. “ ‘ Flasher — ten guineas to 
five, Boffer kills himself.’ Within what time shall we say ? ” 

“ A fortnight .? ” suggested Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 

“ Con-found it, no rejoined Mr. Simmery, stopping for an instant to smash 
» fly with the ruler. “ Say a week.” 

“ Split the difference,” said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, “ Make it ten days.” 

“ Well ; ten days,” rejoined Mr. Simmery. 

So, it was entered down in the little books that Boffer was to kill himself within 
ten days, or Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was to hand over to Frank Simmeiy, 
Esquire, the sum of ten guineas ; and that if Boffer did kill himself within that 
time, Frank Simmery, Esquire, would pay to Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, five 
guineas, instead. , - . , 

“I’m very sorry he has failed,” said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. “Capital 
dinners he gave.” . 

“ Fine port he had too,” remarked Mr. Simmery. “ We are going to send our 
butler to the sale to-morrow, to pick up some of that sixty-four.” 

“ The devil you are ” said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. “ My man’s going too. 
Five guineas my man outbids your man.” 

“ Done.” . , 1 , -1 

Another entry was made in the little books, with the gold pencil-cases ; and 
Mr. Simmery having, by this time, killed all the flies and taken aU the bets, 
Btrolled away to the Stock Exchange to see what wa i going forward. 

Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, now condescended to receive Mr. Solomon Pell 1 


The Pickwick Club, 


484 


instiTJCtions, and having filled up some printed forms, requested the party to follow 
him to the Bank : which they did : Mr. Weller and his three friends staring at all 
they beheld in unbounded astonishment, and Sam encountering everything with 
a coolness which nothing could disturb. 

Crossing a court-yard which was all noise and bustle ; and passing a couple of 
porters who seemed dressed to match the red fire engine which was wheeled away 
into a coiner ; they passed into an office where their business was to be transacted, 
and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left them standing for a few moments, while they 
went up stall's into the Will Office. 

“ Wot place is this here ?” whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the elder 
Mr. Weller. 

“ Counsel’s Office,” replied the executor in a whisper. 

“Wot are them gen’l’men a, settin’ behind the counters?” asked the hoarse 
coachman. 

“ Reduced counsels, I s’pose,” replied Mr. Weller. “Ain’t they the reduced 
coun‘=els, Samivel ?” 

“ Wy, you don’t suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you ?” inquired 
Sam, with some disdain. 

“ How should I know ? ” retorted Mr. Weller ; “ I thought they looked wery 
like it. Wot are they, then ? ” 

“ Clerks,” replied Sam. 

“ Wot are they all a eatin’ ham sangwidges for ? ” inquired his father 

“ ’Cos it’s in their dooty,” I suppose, replied Sam, “ it’s a part o’ the system ; 
they’re always a doin’ it here, all day long ! ” 

Mr, Weller and his friends had scarcely had a moment to reflect upon this 
singular regulation as connected with the monetary system of the country, when 
they were rejoined by Pell and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, who led them to a 
part of the counter above which was a round black board with a large “ W.” 
on it. 

“Wot’s that for, sir?” inquired Mr. Weller, directing Pell’s attention to the 
target in question. 

“ The first, letter of the name of the deceased,” replied Pell. 

“I say,” said Mr. Weller, turning round to the umpires. “There’s somethin’ 
wrong here. We’s our letter — this won’t do.” 

The referees at once gave it as their decided opinion that the business could not 
be legally proceeded with, under the letter W, and in all probability it would have 
stood over lor one day at least, had it not been for the prompt, though, at first 
sight, undutiful behaviour of Sam, who, seizing his father by the skirt of the coat, 
dragged him to the counter, and pinned him there, until he had affixed his 
signature to a couple of instruments ; which from Mr. Weller’s habit of printing, 
was a work of so much labour and time, that the officiating clerk peeled and ate 
three Ripstone pippins while it was performing. 

As the elder Mr. Weller insisted on selling out his portion forthwith, they 
proceeded from the Bank to the gate of the Stock Exchange, to which Wilkins 
Flasher, Esquire, after a short absence, returned with a cheque on Smith, Payne, 
ar J Smith, for five hundred and thirty pounds ; that being the sum of money to 
which Mr. Weller at the market price of the day, was entitled, in consideration of 
the balance of the second Mrs. Weller’s funded savings, Sam’s two hundrei 
pounds stood transferred to his name, and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, having been 
paid his commission, dropped the money carelessly into his coat pocket, and 
lounged back to his office. 

Mr. Weller was at first obstinately determined on cashing the cheque in notliing 
Dut sovereigns ; but it being repiesented by the umpires that by so doing he m^ist 


Sam's Reward. 


485 

Incur the expense of a small sack to carry them home in, he consented to receive 
the amount in five-pound notes. 

“ IMy son,” said Mr. Weller as they came out of the banking-house, “mj^ son 
and me has a wery particular engagement this arternoon, and I should like to have 
this here bis’ness settled out of hand, so let’s jest go straight avay someveres, vere 
ve can hordit the accounts.” 

A quiet room was soon found, and the accounts were produced and audited. 
Mr. Pell’s bill was taxed by Sam, and some charges were disallowed by the 
umpires ; but, notwithstanding Mr. Pell’s declaration, accompanied with many 
solemn asseverations that they were really too hard upon him, it was by very 
many degrees the best professional job he had ever had, and one on which he 
boarded, lodged, and washed, fo; six months afterwards. 

The umpires having partaken of a dram, shook hands and departed, as they had 
to drive out of town that night. Mr. Solomon Pell, finding that nothing more 
vas going forward, either in the eating or drinking way, took a friendly leave, and 
Sam and his father were left alone. 

“ There !” said Mr. Weller, thrusting his pocket-book in his side pocket. “ Vith 
the bills for the lease, and that, there’s eleven hundred and eighty pound here. 
Now, Samivel, my boy, timi the horses’ heads to the George and Wulter!” 


CHAPTER LVI. 

AjS important conference takes place between MR. PICKWICK AND 

SAMUEL WELLER, AT WHICH HIS PARENT ASSISTS. AN OLD GENTLEMAN 
IN A SNUFF-COLOURED SUIT ARRIVES UNEXPECTEDLY. 

Mr. Pickwick was sitting alone, musing over many things, and thinking among 
other considerations how he could best provide for the young couple whose 
present unsettled condition was matter of constant regret and anxiety to hiin, 
when Mary stepped lightly into the room, and, advancing to the table, said, 
rather hastily : 

“ Oh, if you please, sir, Samuel is down stairs, and he says may his father 
see you ?” 

“"Surely,” replied Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Maiy, tripping towards the door again. 

“ Sam has not been here long, has he ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Oh no, sir,” replied Mary eagerly. “He has only just come home. He is 
not going to ask you for any more leave, sir, he says.” 

Mary might have been conscious that she had communicated this last intelligence 
with more warmth than seemed actually necessary, or she might have observed the 
good-humoured smile with which Mr. Pickwick regarded her, when she had 
finished speaking. She certainly held down her head, and examined the comer of 
a very smart little apron, with more closeness than there appeared any absolute 

occasion for. . t-.* i i 

“Tell them they can come up at once, by all means,” said Mr. Pickwick. 
Mary, apparently much relieved, hurried away with her message. 

Mr. Pickwick took two or three turns up and down the room , and rubbing his 
chin with his lefi hand as he did so, appeared lost in thought. 1 v t 

“ Well well,” said Mr. Pickwick at length, in a land but somewhat melancholy 
tone, “ it is the best way in which I could reward him for his attachment ana 


486 


The Pickuick Club, 


fidelity ; let it be so, in Heaven’s name. It is the fate of a lonely old man, that 
those about him should form new and different attachments and leave hxm. I 
have no right to expect that it should be otherwise with me. No, no,” added 
Mr. Pickwick more cheerfully, “it would be selfish and ungrateful. I ought to be 
happy to have an opportunity of providing for him so well. I am. Ot course I 
am.” 

Mr. Pickwick had been so absorbed in these reflections, that a knock at the 
tloor was three cr four times repeated before he heard it. Hastily seating hiirself, 
and calling up his accustomed pleasant looks, he gave the required permission, 
and Sam Weller entered, followed by his father. 

“ Glad to see you back again, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. “ How do you do, 
Mr. Weller?” 

“ Wery hearty, thankee, sir,” replied the widower ; “ hope I see you well, sir.” 

“ Quite, I thank you,” replied Air. Pickwick. 

“ I wanted to have a little bit o’ conwersation wth you, sir,” said Air. Weller, 
“ if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.” 

“ Certainly,” replied Air. Pickwick. “ Sam, give your father a chair.” 

“Thankee, Samivel, I’ve got a cheer here,” said Air. Weller, bringing one 
forward as he spoke ; “ uncommon fine day it’s been, sir,” added the old gentle- 
man, laying his hat on the floor as he sat himself down. 

“ Remarkably so indeed,” replied Air. Pickwick. “ Very seasonable.” 

“ Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,” rejoined Mr. Weller. Here, the old 
gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which, being terminated, he 
nodded his head and winked and made several supplicatory and threatening 
gestures to his son, all of which Sam Weller steadily abstained from seeing. 

Air. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment on the old gentle- 
man’s part, affected to be engaged in cutting the leaves of a book that lay beside 
him, and waited patiently until Mr. Weller should arrive at the object of his visit. 

“ I never see sich a aggerawatin’ boy as you are, Samivel,” said Air. Weller, 
looking indignantly at his son ; “ never in all my bom days.” 

“ What is he doing, Mr. Weller ?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“He von’t begin, sir,” rejoined Air. Weller; “he knows I ain’t ekal to 
ex-pressin’ myself ven there’s anythin’ partickler to be done, and yet he’ll stand 
and see me a settin’ here takin’ up your walable time, and makin’ a reg’lar 
spectacle o’ myself, rayther than help me out vith a syllable. It ain’t filial 
conduct, Samivel,” said Air. Weller, wiping his forehead ; “ wery far from it.” 

“ You said you’d speak,” replied Sam ; “ how should I know you wos done up 
at the wery^ beginnin’ ?” 

“ You might ha’ seen I wam’t able to start,” rejoined his father ; “ I’m on the 
wrong side of the road, and backin’ into the palins, and all manner of unpleasant- 
ness, and yet you von’t put out a hand to help me. I’m ashamed on you, 
Samivel.” 

“ The fact is, sir,” said Sam, with a slight bow, “ the gov’ner’s been a diawin* 
his money.” 

“Wery good, Samivel, wery good,” said Mr. Weller, nodding his head with a 
satisfied air, “ I didn’t mean to speak harsh to you, Sammy. Wery good That’s 
the vay to begin. Come to the pint at once. Wery good indeed, Samivel.” 

Air. Weller nodded his head an extraordinary number of times, in the excess of 
his gratification, and waited in a listening attitude for Sam to resume his statement. 

“ You may sit down, Sam,” said Air. Pickwick, apprehending that the interview 
Was likely to prove rather longer than he had expected. 

Sam bowed again and sat down ; his father looking round, he continued, 

“ The go^ ’ner, sir, has di awn out five hvmdred and thirty pound.” 


Mr. Tony Weller s Property. 


487 


“ Reduced counsels,” interposed Mr. Weller, senior, in an under tone. 

“ It don’t much matter vether it’s reduced counsels, or wot not,” said .Sam ; 

five hundred and thirty pound is the sum, ain’t it ?” 

“All right, Samivel,” replied Mr. Weller. 

“ lo vich sum, he has added for the house and bisness — ” 

“ Lease, good-vill, stock, and fixters,” interposed Mr. Weller. 

^ — “ As much as makes it,” continued Sam, “altogether, ele\e.n hundred and 
eighty pound.” 

“ Indeed !” said Mr. Pickwick. “ I am delighted to heftfr it. I congratulate you, 
Mr. Weller, on having done so well.” 

“ Vait a minit, sir,” said Mr. Weller, raising his hand in a deprecatory manner. 
“ Get on, Samivel.” 

“This here money,” said Sam, with a little hesitation, “he’s anxious to put 
someveres, vere he knows it’ll be safe, and I’m wery anxious too, for if he keeps 
it, he’ll go a lendin’ it to somebody, or inwestin’ property in horses, or droppin’ 
his pocket-book down a airy, or maldn’ a Egyptian mummy of his-self in some 
vay or another.” 

“ Wery good, Samivel,” observed Mr. Weller, in as complacent a manner as if 
Sam had been passing the highest eulogiums on his prudence and foresight. 
“ Wery good.” 

“ For vich reasons,” continued Sam, plucking nervously at the brim of his hat ; 
“for vich reasons, he’s drawd it out to-day, and come here vith me to say, least- 
vays to offer, or in other vords to — ” 

“ — To say this here,” said the elder Mr. Weller, impatiently, “ that it ain’t o’ no 
use to me. I’m a goin’ to vork a coach reg’lar, and ha’nt got noveres to keep it 
in, unless I vos to pay the guard for takin’ care on it, or to put it in vun o’ the 
coach pockets, vich ’ud be a temptation to the insides. If you’ll take care on it 
for me, sir, I shall be wery muchj^bliged to you. P’raps,” said Mr. Weller, walk- 
ing up to Mr. Pickwick and whispering in his ear, “ p’raps it’ll go a little vay 
towards the expenses o’ that ’ere conwiction. All I say is, just you keep it till I 
ask you for it again.” With these words, Mr. Weller placed the pocket-book 
in Mr. Pickwick’s hands, caught up his hat, and ran out of the room with a cele- 
rity scarcely to be expected from so corpulent a subject. 

“ Stop him, Sam ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, earnestly. “ Overtake him ; 
bring him back instantly ! Mr. Weller — here — come back! ” 

Sam saw that his master’s injunctions were not to be disobeyed ; and catching 
his father by the arm as he was descending the stairs, dragged him back by main 
force. 

“ My good friend,” said Mr. Pickwick, taking the old man by the hand ; 
“your honest confidence overpowers me.” 

“ I don’t see no occasion for nothin’ o’ the kind, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, obsti- 
nately. 

“ I assure you, my good friend, I have more money than I can ever need; far 
more than a man at my age can ever live to spend,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“No man knows how much he can spend, till he tries,” observed Mr. Weller. 

“ Perhaps not,” replied Mr. Pickwick ; “ but as I have no intention of trying any 
such experiments, I am not likely to come to want. I must beg you to take this 
back, Mi. Weller.” 

“ Weiy well,” said Mr. Weller with a discontented look. “Mark my vords, 
Sjammy. I’ll do somethin’ desperate vith this here property ; somethin’ desperate ! ” 

“ You’d better not,” replied Sam. 

Mr Weller reflected for a short time, and then, buttoning up his coat with 
great determination, said ; 


488 


The Pickwick Ckih, 


“ I’ll keep a pike.” 

“Wot ! ” exclaimed Sam. 

“ A pike,” rejoined Mr. Weller, through his set teeth ; “ I’ll keep a pike. Say 
good bye to yo;ir father, Samivel. I dewote the remainder o’ my days -t.o a 
pike.” 

This threat was such an awful one, and Mr. Weller besides appearing fuJI^ 
resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so deeply mortified by Mr. PickAvdclk’s 
refusal, that that gentleman, after a short reflection, said : 

“Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep the money. I can do more good w>*’i it 
perhaps, than you can.” 

“Just the wery thing, to be sure,” said Mr. Weller, brightening up ; “o* coursj 
you can, sir.” 

“ Say no more about it,” said Mr. Pickwick, locking the pocket-book in hi; 
desk; “lam heartily obliged to you, my good fiiend. Now sit down aga^n. j 
want to ask your advice.” 

The internal laughter occasioned by the triumphant success of his visit, whic% 
had convulsed not only Mr. Weller’s face, but his arms, legs, and body also, 
during the locking up of the pocket-book, suddenly gave place to the most dignl' 
fied gravity as he heard these words. 

“Wait outside a few minutes, Sam, will you ? ” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Sam immediately withdrew. 

Mr. Weller looked uncommonly wise and very much amazed, when Mr. Pick- 
wick opened the discourse by saying : 

“ You are not an advocate for matrimony, I think, Mr. Weller ? ” 

Mr. Weller shook his head. He was wholly unable to speak ; vague thoughts 
of some wicked widow having been successful in her designs on Mr. Pickwick, 
choked his utterance. 

“ Did you happen to see a young girl down stairs when you came in just now 
with your son ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“ Yes. I see a young gal,” replied Mr. Weller, shortly. 

“ What did you think of her, now ? Candidly, Mr. Weller, what did you think 
of her?” 

“ I thought she wos wery plump, and veil made,” said Mr. Weller, with a criti- 
cal air. 

“ So she is,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ so she is. What did you think of her man- 
ners, from W'hat you saw of her ? ” 

“ Weiy pleasant,” rejoined Mr. Weller. “ Wery pleasant and conformable.” 

The precise meaning which Mr. Weller attached to this last-mentioned adjec- 
tive, did not appear ; but, as it was evident from the tone in which he used it that 
it was a favourable expression, Mr. Pickwick was as well satisfied as if he had 
been thoroughly enlightened on the subject. 

“ I take a great interest in her, Mr. WeUer,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

Mr. Weller coughed. 

“J mean an interest in her doing well,” resumed Mr. Pickwick * “a desire 
that she may be comfortable and prosperous. You understand ? ” 

“Wery clearly,” replied Mr. Weller, who understood nothing yet. 

“ That young person,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ is attached to your so».” 

“To Samivel Veller ! ” exclaimed tire parent. 

“Yes,” said Pickwick. 

“It’s nat’ral,” said Mr. Weller, after some consideration, “nat’ral, but raythei 
ftlarmin’. Sammy must be careful.” 

“ How do you mean ? ” inquired Mr. Pickwick. 

“Wery careful tliat he don’t say nothin’ to her,” responded Mr. Wcder. 


More about Sam's Reward. 


489 


“ Wery careful that he ain’t led avay, in a innocent moment, to say anjrthinl'. as 
may lead to a conwiction for breach. You’re never safe vith ’em, Mr. Pickwdck, 
ven they vunce has designs on you ; there’s no knowin’ vere to have ’em ; and 
vile you’re a-considering of it, they have you. I wos married fust, that vay myself, 
sir, and Sammy wos the consekens o’ the manoover.” 

“You give me no great encouragement to conclude what I have to say,” ob- 
served Mr. Pickwdck, “ but I had better to do so at once. This young person is 
not only attached to your son, Mr. Weller, but your son is attached to her.” 

“Veil,” said Mr. Weller, “this here’s a pretty sort o’ thing to come to a 
father’s ears, this is ! ” 

“I have observed them on several occasions,” said Mr. Pickwick, making no 
comment on Mr. Weller’s last remark ; “and entertain no doubt at all about it. 
Supposing I w’ere desirous of establishing them comfortably as man and wife in 
some little business or situation, where they might hope to obtain a decent living, 
what should you think of it, Mr. Weller } ” 

At first, Mr. Weller received, with wiy faces, a proposition involving the mar- 
riage of anybody in whom he took an interest ; but, as Mr. Pickwick argued the 
point with him, and laid great stress on the fact that Mary was not a widow, he 
gradually became more tractable. Mr. Pickwick had great influence over him, 
and he had been much struck with Mary’s appearance ; having, in fact, bestowed 
several very unfatherly winks upon her, already. At length he said that it was 
not for him to oppose Mr. Pickwick’s inclination, and that he would be very happy 
to yield to his advice ; upon which, Mr. Pickwick joyfully took him at his word, 
and called Sam back into the room. 

“ Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his throat, “ yom father and I have been 
having some conversation about you.” 

“ About you, Samivel,” said Mr. Weller, in a patronising and impressive voice. 

“ I am not so blind, Sam, as not to have seen, a long time since, that you 
entertain something more than a friendly feeling towards Mrs. Winlde’s maid,” 
said Mr. Pickwick. 

“You hear this, Samivel?” said Mr. Weller in the same judicial form of 
speech as before. 

“ I hope, sir,” said Sam, addressing his master : “ I hope there’s no harm in a 
young man takin’ notice of a young ’ooman as is undeniably good-looking and 
well-conducted.” 

“ Certainly not,” said Mr. Pickwick. 

“Not by no means,” acquiesced Mr. Weller, affably but magisterially. 

“ So far from thinking there is anything wTong, in conduct so natural,” resumed 
Mr. Pickwick, “ it is my wish to assist and promote your wishes in this respect. 
With this view, I have had a little conversation with your father ; and finding that 
he is of my opinion ” 

“ The lady not bein’ a widder,” interposed Mr. Weller in explanation. 

“ The lady not being a widow,” said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. “ I wish to free 
you from the restraint which your present position irnposes upon you, and to mark 
my sense of your fidelity and many excellent qualities, by enabling you to marry 
this girl at once, and to earn an independent livelihood for yourself and family. I 
shall be proud, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, whose voice had faltered a little hitherto, 
out now resumed its customary tone, “ proud and happy to make your future 
prospects in life, my grateful and peculiar care.” 

There was a profound silence for a short time, and then Sam said, in a low 
husky sort of voice, but firmly withal ; 

“I’m very much obliged to you for your goodness, sir, as is only like yourself; 
but it can’t be done.” 


The Pickwick Club. 


4^0 

“ Can’t be done ! ” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick in astonishment. 

“ Samivel ! ” said Mr. Weller, with dignity. 

“ I say it can’t be done,” repeated Sam in a louder key. “ Wot’s to become 
of you, sir ” 

“My good fellow,” replied Mr. Pickwick, “the recent changes among my 
fnends will alter my mode of life in future, entirely ; besides, I am growing older, 
and want repose and quiet. My rambles, Sam, are over.” 

“ How do I know that ’ere, sir ? ” argued Sam. “ You think so now ! S’pose 
you wos to change your mind, vich is not unlikely, for you’ve the spirit o’ five-and- 
tventy in you still, what ’ud become on you vithout me. It can’t be done, sir, it 
can’t be done.” 

“ Weiy good, Samivel, there’s a good deal in that,” said Mr. Weller, 
encouragingly. 

“ I speak after long deliberation, Sam, and with the certainty that I shall keep 
my word,” said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head. “ New scenes have closed upon 
me ; my rambles are at an end.” 

“Wery good,” rejoined Sam. “Then, that’s the wery best reason wy you 
should alvays have somebody by you as understands you, to keep you up and 
make you comfortable. If you vant a more polished sort o’ feller, tell and good, 
have him ; but vages or no vages, notice or no notice, board or no board, lodgin’ 
or no lodgin’, Sam Veller, as you took from the old inn in the Borough, sticks by 
you, come what come may ; and let ev’rythin’ and ev’rybody do their wery fiercest, 
nothin’ shall ever penvent it ! ” 

At the close of this declaration, which Sam made with great emotion, the elder 
Mr. Weller rose from his chair, and, forgetting all considerations of time, place, or 
propriety, waved his hat above his head, and gave three vehement cheers. 

“ My good fellow,” said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller had sat down again, 
ra'-her abashed at his own enthusiasm, “ you are bound to consider the young 
wf man also.” 

“ I do consider the young ’ooman, sir,” said Sam. “ I have considered the 
yov ng ’ooman. I ’ve spoke to her. I’ve told her how I’m sitivated ; she’s ready to 
var till I’m ready, and I believe she vill. If she don’t, she’s not the young 
’©o#ian I take her for, and I give her up vith readiness. You’ve know’dme afore, 
sir. My mind’s made up, and nothin’ can ever alter it.” 

Who could combat this resolution } Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at that 
ncoment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested attachment of his 
humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from tlie greatest men living 
could have awakened in his heart. 

While this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick’s room, a little old 
gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes, followed by a porter carrying a small 
portmanteau, presented himself below ; and after securing a bed for the night, 
inquired of the waiter whether one Mrs. Winkle was staying there, to which 
q^uestion the waiter, of course, responded in the affirmative. 

“ Is she alone ? ” inquired the little old gentleman. 

“ I believe she is, sir,” replied the waiter; “ I can aall her own maid, sir, il 
you ” 

“ No, I don’t want her,” said the old gentleman quicloy. Show me to her 
(room without announcing me.” 

“ Eh, sir .? ” said the waiter. 

“ Are you deaf ? ” inquired the little old gentleman. 

“ No, sir.” 

** Then listen if you please. Can you hear me now ? 

“Yes, sir-’* 


Mrs. IVinkle, I believe? 


491 


“That’s well. Show me to Mrs. Winkle’s room, without announcin^j me.” 

As the little old gentleman uttered this command, he flipped five shillings into 
the waiter’s hand, and looked steadily at him. 

“Reall}-, sir,” said the waiter, “ I don’t know, sir, whether ” 

“ Ah ! you’ll do it, I see,” said the little old gentleman. “You had better do 
it at once. It will save time.” 

Ihere was something so very cool and collected in the gentleman’s manner, 
that the waiter put the five shillings in his pocket, and led him up stairs without 
another word. 

“ This is the room, is it ? ” said the gentleman. “ You may go.” 

The waiter complied, wondering much who the gentleman could be, and what 
he wanted ; the little old gentleman waiting till he was out of sight, tapped at 
the door. 

“ Come in,” said Arabella 

“ Um, a pretty voice at any rate,” murmured the little old gentleman; “but 
that’s notiling.” As he said this, he opened the door and walked in. Arabella, 
who was sitting at work, rose on beholding a stranger — a little confused — but by 
no mea.ns ungracefully so. 

“ Pray don’t rise, ma’am,” said the unknown, walking in, and closing the door 
after him. “ Mrs. Winkle, 1 believe ? ” 

A’^abella inclined her head. 

“ Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle, who married the son of the old man at Birming- 
ham ? ” said the stranger, eyeing Arabella with visible curiosity. 

Again, Arabella inclined her head, and looked uneasily round, as if uncertain 
whether to call for assistance. 

“ I surprise you, I see, ma’am,” said the old gentleman. 

“ Rather, I confess,” replied Arabella, wondering more and more. 

“ I’ll take a chair, if you’ll allow me, ma’am,” said the stranger. 

He took one ; and drawing a spectacle-case from his pocket, leisurely pulled out 
a pair of spectacles, which he adjusted on his nose. 

“ You don’t know me, ma’am ? ” he said, looking so intently at Arabella that 
she began to feel alarmed. 

“ No, sir,” she replied timidly. 

“ No,” said the gentleman, nursing his left leg ; “ I don’t know how you should. 
You know my name, though, ma’am.” 

“ Do I ? ” said Arabella, trembling, though she scarcely knew why. “ May I ask 
what it is?” 

“Presently, ma’am, presently,” said the stranger, not having yet removed his 
eyes from her countenance. “ You have been recently married, ma’am ?” 

“ I have,” replied Arabella, in a scarcely audible tone, laying aside her work, 
and becoming greatly agitated as a thought, that had occurred to her before, struck 
more forcibly upon her mind. 

“Without having represented to your husband the propriety of first consulting 
his father, on whom he is dependent, I think ?” said the stranger. 

Arabella applied her handkerchief to her eyes. 

“ Without an endeavour, even, to ascertain, by some indirect appeal, what were 
the old. man’s sentiments on a point in which he would naturally feel much inte- 
rested .?” said the stranger. 

“I cannot deny it, sir,” said Arabella. , , , 

“ And without having sufficient property of your own to afford your husband any 
permanent assistance in exchange for the worldly advantages which you knew he 
would have gained if he had married agreeably to his father’s wishes ?” said the 
Did gcnUeman. “ This is what boys and girls call disinterested af ection, till tncy 


49 » 


The Pickwick Club. 


have boys and girls of their own, and then they see it in a rougher and very diffe- 
rent light ! ” 

Arabella’s tears flowed fast, as she pleaded in extenuation that she was young 
and inexperienced ; that her attachment had alone induced her to take the step to 
which she had resorted ; and that she had been deprived of the counsel and guidance 
of her parents almost from infancy. 

“ It was wrong,” said tlie old gentleman in a milder tone, “ very wrong. It was 
foolish, romantic, unbusiness-like.” 

“ It was my fault ; all my fault, sir,” replied poor Arabella, weeping. 

“ Nonsense,” said the old gentleman ; “ it was not your fault that he fell in love 
with you, I suppose ? Yes it was though,” said the old gentleman, looking rathei 
slyly at Arabella. “ It was your fault. He couldn’t help it.” 

This little compliment, or the little gentleman’s odd way of paying it, or his 
altered manner — so much kinder than it was, at first — or all three together, forced 
a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears. 

“ Where’s your husband ? ” inquired the old gentleman, abruptly; stopping a 
smile which was just coming over his own face. 

“ I expect him every instant, sir,” said Arabella. “ I persuaded him, to take a 
walk this morning. He is very low and wretched at not having heard from his 
father.” 

“ Low, is he ? ” said the old gentleman. “ Serve him right ! ” 

He feels it on my account, I am afraid,” said Arabella ; “ and indeed, sir, I 
feel it deeply on his. I have been the sole means of bringing him to his present 
condition.” 

“ Don’t mind it on his account, my dear,” said the old gentleman. It serves 
him right. I am glad of it— actually glad of it, as far as he is concerned.” 

The words were scarcely out of the old gentleman’s lips, when footsteps were 
heard ascending the stairs, which he and Arabella seemed both to recognise at the 
same moment. The little gentleman turned pale, and making a strong effort to 
appear composed, stood up, as Mr. Winkle entered the room. 

“ Father I” cried Mr. Winlde, recoiling in amazement. 

“ Yes, sir,” replied the little old gentleman. “Well, sir, what have you got to 
say to me 

Mr. Winkle remained silent. 

“ You are ashamed of yourself, I hope, sir ?” said the old gentleman. 

Still Mr. Winkle said nothing. 

“ Are you ashamed of yourself, sir, or are you not ?” inquired the old gentleman. 

“No, sir,” replied Mr. Winkle, drawing Arabella’s arm through his. “I am 
not ashamed of myself, or of my wife either.” 

“ Upon my word ! ” cried the old gentleman, ironically. 

“lam very sorry to have done anything which has lessened your affection for 
me, sir,” said Mr. Winkle ; “but I will say, at the same time, that I have no 
reason to be ashamed of having this lady for my wife, nor you of having her for a 
daughter.” 

“ Give me your hand, Nat,” said the old gentleman in an altered voice. “ Kiss 
me, my love. You are a very charming little daughter-in-law after all ! ” 

In a few minutes’ time Mr. Winkle went in search of Mr. Pickwiqk, and 
returning with that gentleman, presented him to his father, whereupon they shook 
hands for five minutes incessantly. 

“Mr. Pickwick, I thank you most heartily for all your kindness to my son,” said 
old Mr. Winkle, in a bluff straightforward way. “ I am a hasty fellow, and when I 
saw you last, I was vexed and taken by surprise. I have judged for myself now, 
and am more than satisfied. Shall I make any more apologies, Mr. Pickwick ? *’ 


Settling Down. 4^3 

“Not one,” replied that gentleman. “You have done the only thing wanting 
to complete my happiness.” 

Hereupon, there was another shaking of hands for five minutes longer, accom- 
panied by a great number af complimentary speeches, which, besides being compli- 
mentary, had the additional and very novel recommendation of being sincere. 

Sam had dutifull) seen his father to the Belle Sauvage, when, on returning, he 
encountered the fat boy in the court, who had been charged with the delivery of a 
note from Emily Wardle. 

“ I say,” said Joe, who was unusually loquacious, “what a pretty girl Mary is, 
isn’t she } I am so fond of her, I am ! ” , 

Mr. Weller made no verbal remark in reply ; but eyeing the fat boy for a moment, 
quite transfixed at his presumption, led him by the collar to the comer, and dis- 
missed him with a harmiess but ceremonious kick. After which, he walked home, 
whistling. 


CHAPTER LVII. 

IN WHICH THE PICKWICK CLUB IS FINALLY DISSOLVED, AND EVERYTHING 
CONCLUDED TO THE SATISFACTION OF EVERYBODY. 

For a whole week after the happy arrival of Mr. Winkle from Birmingham, Mr. 
Pickwick and Sam Weller were from home all day long, only returning just in 
time for dinner, and then wearing an air of mysteiy and importance quite foreign 
to their natures. It was evident that very gi'ave and eventful proceedings were on 
foot ; but various sumiises were afloat, respecting their precise character. Some 
(among whom was Mr. Tupman) were disposed to think that Mr. Pickwick con- 
templated a matrimonial alliance ; but this idea the ladies most strenuously repu- 
diated. Others, rather inclined to the belief that he had projected some distant 
tour, and was at present occupied in effecting the preliminary arrangements ; but 
this again was stoutly denied by Sam himself, who had unequivocally stated when 
cross-examined by Mary that no new journeys were to be undertaken. At length, 
when the brains of the whole party had been racked for six long days, by un- 
availing speculation, it was unanimously resolved that Mr. Pickwick should be 
called upon to explain his conduct, and to state distinctly why he had thus absented 
himself from the society of his admiring friends. 

With this view, Mr. Wardle invited the full circle to dinner at the Adelphi ; 
and, the decanters having been twice sent round, opened the business. 

“ We are all anxious to know,” said the old gentleman, “ what we have done 
to offend you, and to induce you to desert us and devote yomself to these solitary 
walks.” 

“ Are you ?” said Mr. Pickwick. “It is singular enough that I had intended 
to volunteer a full explanation this very day ; so, if you will give me another glass 
of wine, E will satisfy your curiosity.” 

The decanters passed from hand to hand with unwonted briskness, and Mr. 
Pickwick looking round on the faces of his friends, with a cheerful smile, pro- 
cc' ded ; 

“All the changes that have taken place among us,” said Mr. Pickwick, “J 
mean the marriage that has taken place, and the marriage that will take place, 
with the changes tl;ey involve, rendered it necessary for me to think, sobeily and 
at once, upon my future plans. I determined on retiring to some quiet pretty 


♦94 


The Pickwick Club. 


neighbourhood in the vicinity of London ; I saw a house which exactly suited my 
fancy ; I have taken it and furnished it. It is fully prepared for my reception, and 
I intend entering upon it at once, trusting that I may yet live to spend many quiet 
years in peaceful retirement, cheered through life by the socieiy of my friends, 
and followed in death by their affectionate remembrance.” 

Here Mr. Pickwick paused, and a low murmur ran round the table. 

“ The house I have taken,” said Mr. Pickwick, “ is at Dulwich. It has a large 
garden, and is situated in one of the most pleasant spots near London. It has 
been fitted up with every attention to substantial comfort ; perhaps to a little 
elegance besides ; but of that you shall judge for yourselves. Sam accompanies 
me there. I have engaged, on Perker’s representation, a housekeeper — a very old 
one — and such other servants as she thinks I shall require. I propose to con- 
secrate this little retreat, by having a ceremony in which I take a great interest, 
performed there. I wish, if my friend Wardle entertains no objection, that his 
daughter should be mairied from my new house, on the day I take possession 
of it. The happiness of young people,” said Mr. Pickwick, a little moved, “ has 
ever been the chief pleasure of my life. It will warm my heart to witness the 
happiness of those friends who are dearest to me, beneath my own roof.” 

Mr. Pickwick paused again : Emily and Arabella sobbed audibly. 

“ I have communicated, both personally and by letter, with the club,” resumed 
Mr. Pickwick, “acquainting them with my intention. During our long absence, 
it had suffered much from internal dissensions ; and the withdrawal of my name, 
coupled with this and other circumstances, has occasioned its dissolution. The 
Pickwick Club exists no longer. 

“ I shall never regret,” said Mr. Pickwick in a low voice, “ I shall never regret 
having devoted the greater part of two years to mixing with different varieties and 
shades of human character : frivolous as my pursuit of novelty may have appeared 
to many. Nearly the whole of my previous life having been devoted to business 
and the pursuit of wealth, numerous scenes of which I had no previous conception 
have dawned upon me — 1 hope to the enlargement of my mind, and the improve- 
ment of my understanding. If I have done but little good, I trust I have done 
less harai, and that none of my adventures will be other than a source of amusing 
and pleasant recollection to me in the decline of life. God bless you all ! ” 

With these words, Mr. Pickwick filled and drained a bumper with a trembling 
hand, and his eyes moistened as his friends rose with one accord, and pledged 
him from flieir hearts. 

There were very few preparatory arrangements to be made for the marriage of 
Mr. Snodgrass. As he had neither father nor mother, and had been in his 
minority a ward of Mr. Pickwick’s, that gentleman was perfectly well acquainted 
with his possessions and prospects. His account of both was quite satisfactory to 
Wardle — as almost any other account would have been, for the good old gentleman 
was overflowing with hilarity and kindness — and a handsome portion having been 
bestowed upon Emily, the marriage was fixed to take place on the fourth day from 
that time : the suddenness of which preparations reduced three dress-makers and 
a tailor to the extreme verge of insanity. 

Getting post-horses to the carriage, old Wardle started off, next day, to bring 
his mother up to town. Communicating his intelligence to the old "lady with 
characteristic imj)etuosity, she instantly fainted away ; but being promptly revived, 
ordered the brocaded silk gown to be packed up forthwith, and proceeded to relate 
some circumstances of a similar nature attending the marriage of the eldest 
daughter of Lady Tollimglower, deceased, which occupied three hours in the 
recital, and were not half finished at la-^t. 

Mrs. Tiundle had to be infoi med of all the mighty preparations that wore making 


Settled Down. 


495 


in London, and being in a delicate state of health was informec thereof through 
Mr. Trundle, lest the news should be too much for her ; but it wts not too much 
for her, inasmuch as she at once wrote off to Muggleton, to order a new cap and 
a black satin gown, and moreover avowed her determination of being present at 
the ceremony. Hereui)on, Mr. Trundle called in the doctor, and the doctoi said 
Mrs. Trundle ought to know best how she felt herself, to which Mrs. Trundle 
replied that she felt herself quite equal to it, and that she had made up her mind 
to go ; upon which the doctor, who was a wise and discreet doctor, and knew 
what was good for himself as well as for other people, said that perhaps if Mrs. 
Trundle stopped at home she might hurt herself more by fretting, than by going, 
so perhaps she had better go. And she did go ; the doctor with great attention 
sending in half a dozen of medicine, to be drunk upon the road. 

In addition to these points of distraction, Wardle was intrusted with two small 
letters to two small young ladies who were to act as bridesmaids ; upon the receipt 
of which, the two young ladies were driven to despair by having no “things” 
ready for so important an occasion, and no time to make them in — a circumstance 
which appeared to afford the two worthy pap?s of the two small young ladies 
rather a feeling of satisfaction than otherwise. However, old frocks were trimmed, 
and new bonnets made, and the young ladies looked as well as could possibly have 
been expected of them. And as they cried at the subsequent ceremony in the 
proper places, and trembled at the right times, they acquitted themselves to the 
admiration of all beholders. 

How the two poor relations ever reached London — whether they walked, or got 
behind coaches, or procured lifts in wagons, or earned each other by turns — is 
uncertain; but there they were, before Wardle ; and the very first people that 
knocked at the door of Mr. Pickwick’s house, on the bridal morning were the tAvo 
poor relations, all smiles and shirt collar. 

They were welcomed heartily though, for riches or poverty had no influence on 
Mr. Pickwick ; the new servants were all alacrity and readiness ; Sam was in a 
most unrivalled state of high spirits and excitement ; Mary was glowing with 
beauty and smart ribands. 

The bridegroom, who had been staffing at the house for two or three days 
previous, sallied forth gallantly to Dulwich Church to meet the bride, attended by 
Mr. Pickwick, Ben Allen, Bob Sawyer, and Mr. Tupman ; with Sam Weller 
outside, having at his button-hole a white favour, the gift of his lady love, and clad 
in a new and gorgeous suit of livery invented for the occasion. They were met 
by the Wardlcs, and the Winkles, and the bride and bridesmaids, and the 
Trundles ; and the ceremony having been performed, the coaches rattled back to 
Mr. Pickwick’s to breakfast, where little Mr. Perker already awaited them. 

Here, all the light clouds of the more solemn part of the proceedings passed 
away ; every face shone forth joyously ; nothing was to be heard but congra- 
tulations and commendations. Everything was so beautiful ! The lawn in front, 
the garden behind, the miniature conservatory, the dining-room, the drawing- 
room, the bed-rooms, the smoking-room, and above all the study with its pictures 
and easy chairs, and odd cabinets, and queer tables, and books out of nunriber, 
with a large cheerful window opening upon a pleasant lawn and commanding a 
pretty landscape, dotted here and there with little houses almost hidden by 
the ti-ees ; and then the curtains, and the carpets, and the chairs, and the sofas ! 
Everything was so beautiful, so compact, so neat, and in such exquisite taste, sard 
everybody, that there really was no deciding what to admire most; 

And in the midst of all this, stood Mr. Pickwick, his countenance lighted up 
with smiles, which the heart of no man, woman, or child, could resist : himsell 
the happiest of the group : shaking hands, over and over again with the samt 


49^ 


The Pickwick Club. 


people, and when his own hands were not so employed, rubbing them with pleasure ; 
turning round in a different direction at every fresh expression of ^atirication or 
curiosity, and inspiring everybody with his looks of gladness and delight. 

Breakfast is announced. Mr. Pickwick leads the old lady (who has been very 
eloquent on the subject of Lady Tollimglower), to the top of a long table ; Wardle 
'akes the bottom ; the friends arrange themselves on either side ; Sam takes his 
station behind his master’s chair ; the laughter and talking cease ; Mr. Pickwick, 
raving said grace, pauses for an instant, and looks round him. As he does so, 
»he tears roll down his cheeks, in the fulness of his joy. 

Let us leave our old friend in one of those moments of unmixed happiness, of 
jvhich, if we seek them, there are ever some, to cheer our transitory existence 
Acre. There are dark shadows on the earth, but its lights are stronger in tiie 
;ontrast. Some men, like bats or owls, have better eyes for the darkness than 
Jor the light. We, who have no such optical powers, are better pleased to take our 
last parting look at the visionary companions of many solitary hours, when the 
^rief sunshine of the world is blazing full upon them. 

It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even the 
prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the course of nature. 
It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create imaginary friends, and lose 
them in the course of art. Nor is this the full extent of theii- misfortunes ; for they 
are required to furnish an account of them besides. 

In compliance with this custom — unquestionably a bad one — we subjoin a few 
biographical words, in relation to the party at Mr. Pickwick’s assembled. 

Mr. and Mrs. Winkle, being fully received into favour by the old gentleman, 
were shortly afterwards installed in a newly-built house, not half a mile from 
Mr. Pickwick’s. Mr. Winkle, being engaged in the City as agent or town cor- 
respondent of his father, exchanged his old costume for the ordinary dress of 
Englishmen, and presented all the external appearance of a civilised Cliristian 
ever afterwards. 

Mr. and Mr?. Snodgrass settled at Dingley Dell, where they purchased and 
cultivated a small farm, more for occupation than profit. Mr. Snodgrass, being 
occasionally abstracted and melancholy, is to this day reputed a great poet among 
his friends and acquaintance, although we do not find that he has ever written 
anything to encourage the belief. There are many celebrated characters, literary, 
philosophical, and othvTwise, who hold a high reputation on a similar tenure. 

Mr. Tupman, when his friends mairied, and Mr. Pickwick settled, took 
lodgings at Richmond, where he has ever since resided. He walks constantly on 
the Terrace during the summer months, with a youthful and jaunty air which has 
rendered him the admiration of the numerous elderly ladies of single condition, 
who reside in the vicinity. He has never proposed again. 

Mr. Bob Sawyer, having previously passed through the Gazette, passed over to 
Bengal, accompanied by Mr. Benjamin Allen ; both gentlemen having received 
surgical appointments from the East India Company. They each had the yellow 
fever fourteen times, and then resolved to try a little abstinence ; since which 
period, they have been doing well. 

Mrs. Bardell let lodgings to many conversable single gentlemen, with great 
profit, but never brought any more actions for breach of promise of marriage. 
Her attorneys, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, continue in business, fiom which they 
realise a large inctDme, and in which they are universally considered among the 
sharpest of the sharp. 

Sam Weller kept his word, and remained unmarried, for two years. The old 
housekeeper dying at the end of that liiue, Mr. Pickwick promoteid Ma,ry to th^ 


Summing up. 


497 


situation, on condition of hei marrying Mr. Weller at once, which she did without 
a murmur. From the circumstance of two sturdy little boys having been repeat- 
edly seen at the gate of tlie back garden, there is reason to suppose that Sam lias 
seme family. 

The elder Mr. Weller drove a coach for twelve months, but being afflicted witli 
the gout, was compelled to retire. The contents of the pocket-book had been so 
well invested for him, however, by Mr. Pickwick, that he had a handsome inde- 
pendence to retire on, upon which he still lives at an excellent public-house near 
Shooter’s Hill, where he is quite reverenced as an oracle ; boasting very much 
of his intimacy with Mr. Pickwick, and retaining a most unconquerable aversion 
to widows. 

Mr. Pickwick himself continued to reside in his new house, employing his 
leisure hours in arranging the memoranda w'hich he afterwards presented to the 
#;ecretary of the once famous ^lub, or in hearing Sam Weller read aloud, with such 
remarks as suggested themselves to his mind, which never failed to afford Mr. 
Pickwick great amusement. He was much troubled at first, by the numerous 
applications made to him by Mr. Snodgrass, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Trundle, 
to act as godfather to their offspring ; but he has become used to it now, and 
officiates as a matter of course. He never had occasion to regiet his bounty 
to Mr. Jingle ; for both that person and Job Trotter became, in time, worthy 
members of society, although they have always steadilv objected to retum to the 
scenes of their old haunts aiM> lemptations. Mr. I'lcKwick is somewhat infiim 
now ; but he retains all his former juvenility of spirit, and may still be frequently 
seen, contemplating the pictures in the Dulwich Gallery, or enjoying a walk about 
the pleasant neighbourhood on a fine day. He is known by all the poor people 
. about, who never fail to take their hats off, as he passes, with great respect. The 
children idolise him, and so indeed does the whole neighbourhood. Every year, 
he repairs to a large family meny-making at Mr. Wardle’s ; on this, as on all 
other occasions, he is invariably attended by the faithful Sam, between whom and 
his master there exists a steady and reciprocal attachment which nothing but 
death will terminate. 


TEE no. 



Standard and Popular Books 

PUBLISHED BY 

Porter & kim, PsiEiDELPHii, Pi 


WAVERLEY NOVELS. By Sib Walter Scott. 


*Waverley. 

*Guy Mannering. 

The Antiquary. 

Rob Roy. 

Black Dwarf; and Old Mortality. 
The Heart of Mid-Lothian. 

The Bride of Lammermoor; and A 
Legend of Montrose. 

*Ivanhoe. 

The Monastery. 

The Abbott. 

Kenilworth. 

-The Pirate. 


The Fortunes of NigeL 
Peveril of the Peak. 

Quentin Durward. 

St. Ro nan’s Well. 

Redganntlet. 

The Betrothed; and The Talisman. 
Woodstock. 

The Fair Maid of Perth. 

Anne of Geierstein. 

Count Robert of Paris; and Castle 
Dangerous. 

Chronicles of the Canongate. 


Household Edition. 23vols. Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, extra, 
black and gold, per vol., $1.00; sheep, marbled edges, per vol., 
$1.50; half calf, gilt, marbled edges, per vol., $3.00, Sold sepa- 
rately in cloth binding only. 

Universe Edition. 25 vols. Printed on thin paper, and con- 
taining one illustration to the volume. 12mo. Cloth, e^ra, black 
and gold, per vol., 75 cts. 

World Edition. 12 vols. Thick 12rao. (Sold xix sets only.) 
Cloth, extra, black and gold, $18.00 ; half imt. Russia, marbled 
edges, $24.00. 


This is the best edition for the library or for general use published. Its 
convenient size, the extreme legibility of the type^ which is larger thau 
is used in any other 12uio edition, either English or American. 


TALES OF A GRANDFATHER. By Sib Waltbb Scott, Bart. 
4 vols. Uniform with the Waverley Novels. 

Household Edition. Illusti-ated. T2mo. Cloth, extra, black 
and gold, per vol , $1.00; sheep, marbled edges, per vol., $1.50; 
half calf, gilt, marbled edges, per vol., $3.00. 

This edition contains the Fourth Series — Tales from French history — and 
is the only complete edition published in this country. 

(11 


2 


PORTER & COATES’ PUBLICATIONS. 


CHARLES DICKENS' COMPLETE WORKS. Author’s Edition. 
14 vols., with a portrait of the author on steel, and ei^ht 
illustrations by F. O. C. Darley, Cruikshank, Fildes, Eytinge, 
and others, in each volume;. 12mo. Cloth, extra, black and 
gold, per vol., $1.00 ; sheep, marbled edges, per vol., $1.50 ; half 
imt. Russia, marbled edges, per vol., $1.50: half calf, gilt, 
marbled edges, per vol., $2.75. 


*Piekwick Papers. 

^Oliver Twist, Pictures of Italy, and 
American Notes. 

*Nicholas Nickleby. 

Old Curiosity Shop, and Reprinted 
Pieces. 

Barnaby Riidge, and Hard Times. 
*Martiu Chuzzlewit. 

Donibey and Son. 

*David Copperfield. 


Christmas Books, Uncommercial 
Traveller, and Additional 
Christmas Stories. 

Bleak House. 

Little Dorrit. 

T^le of Two Cities, and Great Ex- 
pectations. 

Our Mutual Friend. 

Edwin Brood, Sketches, Master 
Humphrey’s Clock, etc., etc. 


Sold separately in cloth binding only. 

■^'Also in Alta Edition, one illustration, 75 cents. 

The same. Universe Edition. Printed on thin paper and con- 
taining one illustration to the volume. 14 vols., 12mo. Cloth, 
extra, black and gold, per vol., 75 cents. 

The same. World Edition. 7 vols., thick 12mo., $12.25. (Sold 
in sets only.) 


CHILD'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. By Charles Dickens. 
Popular 12mo. edition ; from new electrotype plates. Large 
clear type. Beautifully illustrated with 8 engravings on wood. 
]2mo. Cloth, extra, black and gold, $1.00. 

Alta Edition. One illustration, 75 cente. 

“ Dickens as a novelist and prose poet is to be classed in the front rank of 
the noble company to which he belongs. He has revived the novel of genu- 
ine practical life, as it existed in the works of Fielding, Smollett, and Gold- 
smith; but at the same time has given to his material an individual coloring 
and expression peculiarly his own. His characters, like those of his great 
exemplars, constitute a world of their own, whose truth to nature every 
reader instinctively recognizes in connection with their truth to darkness.^’ 
—K P. Whipple. 

MACAULAY'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. From the accession 
of James II. By Thomas Babington Macaulay. With a 
steel portrait of the author. Printed fipm new electrotype 
plates from the last English Edition. Being by far the most 
correct edition in the American market. 5 volumes, 12mo 
Cloth, extra, black and gold, per set, $5.00; sheep, marbled 
edges, per set, $7.50; half imitation Russia, $7.50; half calf, 
gilt, marbled edges, per set, $15.00. 

Popular Edition. 5 vols., cloth, plain, $5.00. 

8 VO. Edition. 5 volumes in one, with portrait. Cloth, extra, 
black and gold, $3.00; sheep, marbled edges, $3.50. 

MARTINEAU’S HISTORY OF ENGLAND. From the beginning 
of the 19th Century to the Crimean War. By Harriet Mar- 
tineau. • Complete in 4 vols., with full Index. Cloth, extra, 
black and gold, per set, $4.00 ; sheep, marbled edges, $6.00 ; half 
calf, gilt, marbled edges, $12.00. 


V 





& 


\ ^ * 


r*. V ' 

* 






^ ' ■ r ' - * :: 


.■ '' '- '‘'* * ’ ;. 


> . * ♦ . 


\‘ 


«. • 


. \ 


/ • 


!• »’ 


• » 


t ' 


;.r*w 

-V- 


^ I 








« ' 


I > 


» V 


*- • . 


« 



F* 





•^1 


T 1 











